The  Elder's  People 


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(  0)>iir>(iht,V^\i,hii  Ilat  iif)   a   lirothi 


LALLY    {page  214) 


THE  ELDER'S   PEOPLE 


By 

HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

MDCCCCXX 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,  BY  HARRIET  FRZSCOTT  SFOFFORO 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


,   (  c  <■  ^ 

•  •        *     <. 

•  •        «    «( 

•  •    C  C  9     C 


Contents 


I.  The  Deacon's  Whistle  . 

II.  A  Change  of  Heart 

III.  A  Rural  Telephone 

IV.  The  Step-Father   . 
V.  John-a-Dreams     . 

VI.  Miss  Mahala's  Miracle 

VII.  An  Old  Fiddler    . 

VIII.  The  Blessing  Called  Peace 

IX.  Father  James 

X.  The  Impossible  Choice 

XL  A  Village  Dressmaker  . 

XII.  Miss  Mahala's  Will     . 

XIII.  A  Life  in  a  Night 

XIV.  Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny 


1 

27 
55 
77 
101 
125 
147 
179 
197 
227 
243 
273 
293 
311 


45S578 


THE  DEACON'S  WHISTLE 


THE  ELDER'S  PEOPLE 


The  DeacorHs  Whistle 

IS' POSE  you  heered  Steve  Manners  is  back  ag'in, 
Marthy,"  said  the  caller,  a  little,  dark  woman, 
bristling  with  life  and  spirit,  and  alive  to  the  tips  of 
her  hair.  Steve  Manners  had  once  said  of  her  that 
she  would  have  been  hung  for  a  witch  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

"Yes,"  said  Marthy,  a  long,  lean  woman,  looking 
in  her  gray  gingham  like  the  shadow  of  some  one  else. 
"'A  bird  o'  the  air  shell  carry  the  voice  an'  that 
which  hath  wings  shell  tell  the  matter,'  an'  ev'ry  dog 
in  town  knows  it,  soon 's  he 's  come.  Elder  Perry  ses 
thet  w'enever  things  gits  runnin'  to  his  mind  in  this 
perrish  in  comes  Steve  Manners  an'  his  dog  an'  up- 
sets the  hull  bilin',"  continued  Marthy,  lifting  her 
foot  from  the  treadle  and  stopping  the  hum  of  her 
wheel. 

"  Lemme  see.  It 's  mos'  twenty  year,  ain't  it,  sence 
Steve  fust  come  tellin'  abeout  w'at  he  called  life  ?  I 
was  jes'  startin'  out  tailorin'  an'  nussin'  ?  " 

"  There  did  n't  seem  ter  be  a  mite  o'  harm  in  the 
feller,  though,  as  I  rekerlek,"  said  Marthy,  smooth- 
ing down  her  soft  gray  hair  with  both  hands. 


(( 


The  Elder's  People 

Wal,  he  jes'  bewitched  folks  'ith  his  talkin'  an' 
his  smilin'  an'  his  singin'.  He  knowed  all  the  songs 
't  ever  was  sung,  an'  his  voice  was  like  a  bee  in  a 
flower  —  " 

"  An'  them  thet  he  did  n't  set  all  by  the  ears  fer 
gilt  saloons  an'  dice-throwin'  an'  hoss-racin'  hankered 
fer  the  wild  Injin  life  an'  the  buffalo-hunts  an'  bear- 
fights  he  telled  on." 

"  I  guess  he  'd  seen  'em  all,  Marthy.  He  was  alius 
breakin'  off  work  an'  a-trompin'  up  an'  down.  No, 
there  warn't  a  mite  o'  harm  ter  him  —  he  was  jes' 
a  sorter  travelin'  minstrel  show." 

"  Some  of  'em  what  went  off  ter  the  city  that  fall 
never  come  back,"  said  Marthy,  her  voice  always  as 
melancholy  as  the  sighing  of  an  autumn  wind. 

"  My  grief,  Marthy  !  You  can't  lay  everythin'  ter 
Steve.  He  hedn't  no  idee  o'  the  mischief  he's  set 
afoot  or  he  would  n't  be  comin'  back  wunst  in  so  often. 
He 's  tellin',  this  time,  o'  the  way  they  don't  do  no 
weavin'  nor  spinnin'  down  tu  Salt  Water,  nor  make 
their  own  sassingers,  an'  buys  their  does  ready  made. 
It'd  orter  give  the  wimmin-folks  time  ter  breathe 
down  there,  ef  it 's  true.  Sort  o'  missionary  work  he 's 
done  this  trip." 

"  I  do'  know,  Sally.  Seems  ter  me  turrible  up- 


settin'." 


"  I  'd  ruther  like  it  now.  Gimme  time  ter  call  my 
soul  my  own." 
"  P'r'aps." 


The  Deacon's  Whistle  5 

"I'd  lose  my  advantages  goin'  from  house  ter 
house.  I  should  n't  hear  a  speck  o'  news  ef  I  stayed  tu 
hum  the  way  you  do,  Marthy.  I  should  n't  a-heered 
Steve  tellin'  —  " 

"  Small  loss." 

"  He's  reel  interestin'.  How  many  year  is  it  sence 
Reuel  follered  him  ?  Three  ?  I  thought  it  might  be 
about  three.  An'  no  word  fum  him  sence.  Wat  do 
ye  s'pose  he 's  a-doin'  of  ? " 

"  Eatin'  husks.  'St !  There  's  his  father  a-settin' 
on  the  porch." 

"  You  don't  think  he  heered  ?  I  guess  I  '11  be  goin'. 
I  see  Eunice  ter  meetin',"  Sally  added  in  a  lower 
tone.  "  She's  aged  consider'ble .  She 's  lookin'  dretfle 
peakid.  She's  a-goin'  down  inter  a  sickness  or  I 
don't  know  signs.  Pretty  creetur.  Alius  put  me  in 
mind  of  a  flower —  one  o'  them  flowers  ye  tech  'ith 
a  pin  an'  they  shet  up." 

"  I  guess  happiness  would  bring  her  good  looks 
back,"  said  Marthy.  "  I  did  set  by  her."  And  she 
looked  drearily  out  of  the  window,  not  all  the  soft 
gleams  sent  over  the  long  uplands  before  the  sunset 
making  the  world  bright  to  her. 

"  Mebbe.  But  land  !  they  're  sech  a  shif 'less  lot, 
them  Dows.  The  wimmin  never  gits  their  work  done 
till  nex'  day,  an'  the  men  never  gits  it  done  at  all. 
I  can  see  Jerry  Dow  now,  a-plantin'  terbaccer  an' 
yams  an'  pineapples  in  his  garding  'stid  o'  corn  an' 
cabbages.  Wunst   I  seen  him   plantin'   date-stones. 


6  The  Elder's  People 

Sed  he  'd  liketer  grow  palm- leaf  fans.  His  thoughts 
is  mostly  off  in  the  islands  o'  the  sea.  The  monkey 
he  got  died  arter  a  w'ile,  but  there 's  a  parrot  there, 
swears  in  Spanish  enough  ter  make  yer  blood  run 
cold.  But  Eunice  hes  ter  take  keer  on  it.  Lor! 
he  don't  take  keer  o'  nothin' !  I  don't  wonder 
he"  —  with  a  sidelong  nod  towards  the  porch  — 
"did  n't  want  Reuel  ter  git  a  wife  in  that  land 
o'Nod!" 

"  He  felt 't  would  'a'  ben  the  ruin  o'  the  boy." 

"  Might  'a'  ben  the  savin'  o'  her!'^ 

"  That  warn't  his  consarn." 

"  I  heered  say  ol'  Jerry  Dow  got  the  better  of  him 
in  a  land  sale  —  " 

"'T  ain't  likely." 

"  No,  't  ain't.  Jerry  Dow  never  got  the  better  o' 
anythin',  not  even  his  own  bad  ways." 

"  He  was  jes'  sech  another  as  Steve  Manners." 

"With  the  vim  left  out,  an'  th'  interest  in  his 
feller  creeturs.  Yes,  ef  it  hed  n't  er  ben  fer  his  limp 
he  'd  'a'  gone  trompin'  along  'ith  Steve.'  T  would  'a' 
jes'  suited  him." 

"  How  you  talk  !  " 

"  Gospel  truth.  Wal,  I  for  one  would  n't  blame 
him.  I  've  thought,  many  's  the  time,"  —  peering 
round  to  make  sure  no  one  heard,  —  "  that  I  'd  like 
ter  go  the  same  road  myself.  You  du  git  so  pesky 
tired  o'  the  same  thin'  day  in  an'  day  out.  I  never 
blamed  Reuel  a  speck ;  excep'  for  leavin'  Eunice." 


The  Deacori's  Whistle  7 

"  Leavin'  Eunice  !  "  cried  the  indignant  Marthy, 
all  her  length  of  scant,  clean  gingham  agitated.  "  An' 
there's  his  father!" 

"  I  guess  his  father 's  stood  it.  He 's  made  o'  flint, 
that  man." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  him — you  don't  know 
him!" 

"  Marthy,  you  would  n't  rekemise  Ole  Harry  ef 
you  wuz  ter  meet  up  'ith  him.  You  'd  find  excuses 
for  him.  You  alius  did  — fer  the  boy  thet  was  licked, 
an'  fer  the  man  thet  did  the  lick  in'.  Fer  Reuel,  an' 
fer  Reuel's  father.  You  know  Elder  Perry  dealt  with 
Deacon  Asher  fer  his  hard  feelin's  w'en  he  tore  the 
leaf  'ith  the  boy's  name  on  't  out'n  the  big  Bible, 
out'n  the  hymn-book  in  the  pew,  and  said  't  wam't 
ter  be  spoke  in  his  hearin'." 

"Certi'n.  An'  he  sent  the  Elder  a  bar'l  o'  cider 
an'  a  two-year-old  heifer,  a  little  w'ile  arterwards. 
Yes,  he  ses  ter  Elder :  *  You  can  come  'tween  me 
an'  my  Heavenly  Father.  That 's  w'at  yer  for.  But 
you  can't  come  between  me  and  my  son.  Ef  I  had 
a  son.  But  I  ain't.'  An'  he  ris  up  straight  as  George 
Washington.  You  'd  never  'a'  thought  his  heart  was 
mos'  broke.  I  mind  the  night  now  —  the  buckwheat- 
field  was  all  w'ite,  an'  low  down  there  was  a  w'ite 
mist  on  the  medders,  an'  there  was  a  great  moon  in 
a  shroud,  an'  the  hull  world  seemed  a-swimmin'  in 
that-w'iteness,  an'  I  felt  as  ef  Reuel  was  drownded 
in  it  —  an'  I  'd  carried  him  in  my  heart  sence  his 


8  The  Elder's  People 

mother  put  him  in  my  arms.  An'  I  see  the  Deacon 
bound  ter  everlastin'  torment  —  an',  dear  knows, 
I  M  'a'  saved  him  ef  walkin'  barefoot  over  corn- 
stubble  'd  'a'  done  it.  But  there !  I  can't  talk  about  it." 
And  the  trembling  voice  trembled  into  silence. 

"  Wal,  you  ain't  no  call  ter  talk.  You  ain't  never 
done  so  much  talkin'  as  the  mouse  the  owl  was  arter. 
An'  I  guess  I  '11  say  good-day,  anj^ay.  I  'm  goin' 
up  ter  Mis'  Dow's.  I  'm  afeard  somebuddy  's  sick  up 
there.  I  '11  lay  most  anythin'  it 's  Eunice,  an'  I  'd 
better  be  on  the  spot  before  Mis'  Mahala  Brooks 
senses  it.  I  like  ter  hev  my  own  way,"  said  Sally, 
tying  her  bonnet-strings  with  a  jerk. 

"  I  see  the  wash  wam't  out." 

*'  Lor !  That  ain't  no  sign  there." 

And  Marthy,  looking  after  her  gossip,  saw  not 
one  but  a  dozen  little  figures  crossing  the  brook  and 
going  up  the  hill,  for  her  eyes  were  only  two  big 
tears.  And  then  she  turned  and  went  about  the  but- 
tered toast  and  picked  fish  for  the  Deacon.  "  Oh,  I 
wonder  w'at  Reuel  's  got  fer  supper,"  she  sighed,  as 
she  cut  the  custard-pie. 

Deacon  Asher  sat  in  the  porch,  the  cat  stretched 
along  his  knee.  He  had  been  reading  the  "  Weekly 
Poulterer";  but  it  did  not  interest  him;  nothing 
interested  him.  His  head  had  fallen,  and  as  he  gazed 
abroad  over  the  fields  through  his  huge  horn-bowed 
spectacles  all  things  looked  dark  and  dim  and  vague. 
His  other  hand  lay  upon  the  cat;  not  in  a  caress  — 


The  Beacon's  TFhistle  9 

merely  as  it  were  by  accident.  But  the  cat  under- 
stood. 

Within,  Marthy's  thin  voice  monotonously  piped 
an  old  hymn ;  but  it  piped  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no 
tune,  for  consciously  he  did  not  hear  it.  He  heard 
above  the  burden  a  sweet  young  voice  that  sang  at 
tAvilight  to  a  baby  crooning  after  it  in  an  indistin- 
guishable sweetness.  He  heard  a  chilcFs  glad  cry  sal- 
uting the  early  sun ;  he  heard  a  boy's  clear  clarion 
call  as  he  drove  the  cattle  over  the  hill  on  a  misty 
morning,  all  the  green  world,  the  white  air  washed 
with  dew.  And  then  the  voice  was  a  man's,  low  and 
tender,  when  he  himself  was  burning  up  with  pneu- 
monia. And  he  heard  it  again,  low  and  contained, 
but  full  of  wrath,  the  night  Reuel  walked  with 
Eunice  Dow  and  he  came  between  them  with  a  thrust. 
The  girl  was  looking  pindling  last  Sabbath.  Three 
years  make  some  alterations.  Three  years  ?  Might)^ ! 
Three  eternities ! 

Another  music  began  to  mingle  with  the  Deacon's 
thoughts,  clear  as  bird-singing,  a  singular  reedy 
v/histle  that  seemed  to  give  both  parts  in  one;  a 
very  different  thing  from  Marthy's  melancholy  strain, 
—  a  hymn-tune,  indeed,  but  a  gay  and  lilting  one, 
full  of  runs  and  flourishes :  "  Come,  my  beloved, 
haste  away."  And  then  an  alert  and  slender  man, 
brown  as  a  berry  and  wrinkled  as  a  frozen  apple, 
was  coming  up  the  field,  carrying  a  long  staff  and 
followed  by  a  yellow  mongrel  cur  that,  sitting  down, 


10  The  Elder's  People 

threw  back  his  head  and  began  to  howl,  as  if  sing- 
ing in  sympathy  rather  with  Marthy's  tune  than 
with  his  master's. 

"That's  my  dog  Bitters,"  said  the  man.  "I 
named  him  Bitters  fer  the  bark  an'  w'ine  there  is  in 
him.  Queer  thin',"  he  went  on,  as  he  seated  himself 
on  the  lower  step  of  the  porch,  "but  I  can't  w'istle 
no  higher  'n  I  can  sing.  Useter  think  ef  my  voice 
gin  eout  I  'd  hev  the  w'istle  lef '.  But  I  guess  they  '11 
go  together.  Ain't  much  fun  in  livin'  on  arter  ye  've 
los'  yer  w'istle  —  excep'  w'en  ye've  paid  tew  dear 
fer  it.  P'r'aps,"  he  said,  glancing  up  into  the  Dea- 
con's face  with  a  cheerful  smile,  "  you  've  sometimes 
paid  tew  dear  fer  youm." 

The  Deacon  looked  down  as  he  might  have  looked 
on  a  little  gnome  or  troll  that  had  stepped  from  the 
brown  furrow  to  his  plough,  as  if  he  only  half  be- 
lieved he  were  there,  and  so  inferior  a  thing  could 
be  of  no  consequence.  And  he  made  no  reply. 

"A  w'istle,"  said  the  other,  "is  one  thin'  ter 
you,  Square,  an'  mebbe  another  ter  me.  Fer  me  — 
ter  fust  —  it  meant  freedom,  jes'  freedom.  No  school, 
no  work,  no  shackles ;  an'  I  took  ter  the  road.  I 
done  a  job  w'en  I  wanted  ter,  an'  I  dropped  it 
where  it  wus  w'en  I  wanted  ter.  I  went  out  in  the 
worl'  an'  I  see  life.  But  sometimes  life's  like  that 
book  in  Revelations,  pleasant  in  the  mouth  an'  bad 
as  thoroughwort  arterwards.  I  done  consider'ble 
rovin',  slep'  inside  a  stack,  in  the  mow,  'mong  the 


The  Deacon'' s  Whistle  1 1 

sweet-breathed  critters,  anywheers.  I  helped  myself 
to  the  bite  an'  sup  when  need  was  —  't  wam't  his'n 
any  more  'n  mine.  There  was  times,  cert' in,  w'en  I 
thought  I  'd  like  it  diff'runt.  I  'd  settle  down,  I  said ; 
I  'd  hev  a  home,  an'  a  wife  an'  childern  there.  Then 
I  'd  come  back  up  here  an'  look  at  Sally  Moss.  My 
lord !  I  was  in  chains  !  I  was  on  fire  !  I  lit  out  ag'in.  I 
laid  all  night  in  the  open  pastur'  unner  the  stars,  like 
a  part  o'  the  old  'arth.  I  grabbed  the  truss  an'  swung 
in  unner  the  trucks  an'  hed  my  long  railroad  rides, 
an'  enjoyed  the  resk  as  much  as  a  boss  does  go  in' 
inter  battle.  I  made  me  a  house  o'  hemlock-boughs, 
an'  let  the  snow  cover  it,  an'  made  my  bed  there  a 
winter  long.  I  hed  n't  a  care.  I  lived  my  life.  An'  I 
found  it  good.  No,  I  ain't  ever  paid  tew  dear  fer 
my  w'istle  —  though  w'en  I  see  Sally  Moss  a-risin' 
the  hill  jes'  now,  light  as  a  bubble,  I  felt  as  ef 
p'r'aps  I  hed.  P'r'aps  I  ain't  come  ter  payin'  yet  — 
though  I  've  hed  chilblains  an'  rheumatiz  an'  gone 
hungry.  Anyways,  I  've  hed  my  way.  But  I  guess 
't  ain't  jes'  the  same  'ith  you.  Deacon,"  said  the 
man,  scratching  Bitters's  back  with  the  end  of  his 
staff.  "Your  w'istle  was  ter  hev  vour  own  way  tew. 
Ter  hev  it  ef  the  sky  fell.  I  w^on't  say  ef  all  hell 
stood  in  the  way  —  you're  Deacon  Asher,  an'  I  'm 
usin'  respettable  language.  Ter  walk  rough-shod  over 
everj'body  ter  git  it.  Ter  tread  yer  son  inter  the  dust, 
ter  come  'tvveen  him  an'  his  gel,  ter  make  the  bitter 
outside  world  sweeter  ter  him  than  his  father's  house. 


12  The  Elder's  People 

An'  he 's  found  it  bitter,  you  'd  better  believe !  Ter 
lay  back  an'  never  give  no  sign  an'  wait  fer  him  ter 
come  cringin'  back  —  an'  he'll  die  unner  a  fence 
fust.  There  ain't  nobody,  'less  it's  Miss  Mahala 
Brooks,  darst  ter  speak  up  ter  ye.  It 's  redic'lous. 
Down  where  I  've  ben  there 's  them  could  swaller  ye 
whole  an'  not  know  it  any  more  'n  ef  you  wus  one  o' 
them  dumed  vinegar  flies.  Ye  've  needed  somebody  to 
speak  the  truth  ter  ye.  I  don't  s'pose  the  Elder  rastles 
'ith  ye;  —  can't  say  much  ter  the  man  thet  cushions 
yer  seat  in  the  meetin'  hus.  Ye  've  needed  somebody 
that  don't  keer  a  tinker,  an'  now  ye  've  got  it.  Fer 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  ter  lose,  ye  see.  I  'm  foot-loose 
an'  free.  An'  I  knowed  the  folks  yer  boy 's  ben  a-fore- 
gatherin'  with,  an'  ef  ye  don't  look  out  fer  him 
soon  he  '11  be  a  goner.  Ye  've  blotted  him  out'n  yer 
fambly  Bible,  an'  ye  're  blottin'  him  out'n  the  Book 
o'  Life.  Yes,  sir,  w'ile  you  be  a-settin'  up  yer  rights 
as  a  father,  an'  all  the  rest,  ye've  ben  a-murderin'  a 
man,  body  an'  soul,  an'  that  man  yer  own  son !  " 

Deacon  Asher  put  down  the  cat,  who  had  for  some 
time  been  the  size  of  two  cats  as  she  watched  Bitters; 
and  he  rose  without  looking  at  this  thing  again,  and 
went  into  the  house,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
He  did  not  know  why  he  had  not  gone  in  before; 
,  whether  the  man  held  him  with  his  glittering  eye,  or 
whether  because  it  did  not  become  him  to  be  roused. 

"  So  long,"  said  Steve,  looking  after  him  with  a 
gay  twinkle.   "  Wal,  I  soaked  it  ter  ye  good,  any- 


The  Deacon^ s  Whistle  13 

ways,"  he  added.  And  picking  up  his  tune  where 
he  had  dropped  it,  "  Fly  like  a  youthful  hart  or 
roe,"  he  went  down  the  slope,  followed  by  Bitters, 
singing  after  him  with  uplifted  throat,  according  to 
his  light,  in  a  melancholy  whine. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  moonlight  pouring  into  the 
Deacon's  room  that  hindered  his  slumber  that  night. 
Usually  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  the  weary 
as  soon  as  his  stout  muscles  relaxed  their  tension, 
now  his  pillow  seemed  full  of  thorns.  He  thought 
Marthy  never  would  go  to  bed ;  the  whip-poor-wills 
over  in  the  cranberry-swamp  were  like  imps  of  dark- 
ness; and  then  the  ticking  of  the  friendly  old  clock 
in  the  kitchen,  when  all  the  house  lay  in  dead  silence, 
was  like  the  accusing  voice  of  a  judge.  His  mind 
was  in  as  much  disquiet  as  his  body.  It  was  not 
merely  that  he  had  been  insulted  by  a  ribald  tramp 
who  whistled  hymn-tunes  as  if  for  dancing  in  a  bam ; 
but,  like  a  poisonous  breath  clouding  a  clear  draught, 
doubts  of  the  sturdy  virtue  that  had  been  his  pride 
rose  within  him,  and  tremors,  whether  of  shame  or 
fear,  filled  him  with  unrest.  When  by  and  by  he 
dreamed,  perhaps  it  was  the  beating  of  his  angry 
heart  that  made  the  low  thud,  thud  in  his  ears,  like 
the  rocking  of  the  small  wooden  cradle  that  he  re- 
membered a  light  foot  swinging  in  time  to  a  sound 
half  song,  half  just  a  happy  murmur,  all  presently 
resolving  itself  now  into  the  chorus  of  bird-singing 
at  the  dawn. 


14  The  Elder's  People 

There  was  mowing  to  do  that  day  —  not  much ; 
for  the  Deacon  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  selling 
most  of  his  grass  standing.  It  vexed  him  now,  look- 
ing at  the  broad  fields,  to  remember  the  men  swing- 
ing their  scythes  in  rhythmic  measure,  laying  the  long 
swaths  behind  them,  the  bobolinks  starting  from  their 
nests,  the  fragrance  of  the  fallen  windrows,  and  all 
the  busy  bright  morning  commotion.  He  did  not  let 
himself  think  how  different  it  would  have  been  if 
Reuel  were  at  home.  He  had  put  all  that  out  of 
mind. 

The  day  was  breaking  through  the  dusk  of  dawn 
with  a  dewy  flush  that  made  it  seem  as  if  earth  and 
air  with  all  their  winds  and  sweetness  were  just  new- 
bom.  The  Deacon  would  have  time  to  mow  a  good 
bit  of  the  near  field,  which  he  had  reserved  to  him- 
self, before  milking  and  the  chores.  He  flung  his 
scythe  across  his  shoulder  and  strode  on.  He  had 
some  dim  wonder  if  heaven  itself  were  anything 
fairer  than  this  hour ;  but  a  thought  as  dim  behind 
it  told  him  there  could  be  no  heaven  without  love, 
■ — and  who  in  all  the  universe  held  any  love  for 
him!  Possibly  —  it  was  a  new  thought  to  the  Dea- 
con, and  a  staggering  one  —  he  did  not  deserve  to 
be  loved.  He  knew  very  well  that  there  had  been  no 
love  in  his  heart  for  God  or  man  in  the  blackness 
of  these  three  long  desert  years.  It  had  been  bad 
enough  when  his  wife  was  taken  —  the  tender  brood- 
ing dove;  but  he  had  submitted  after  a  time, — he 


The  Deacon's  Whistle  15 

had  his  boy.  And  then  the  Deacon  stifled  a  convulsive 
sigh  and  shifted  his  scathe  and  went  on.  He  paused 
at  last,  somewhat  dismayed  to  see  that  the  wind  and 
rain  of  a  midnight  shower  had  lodged  the  grass,  and 
then  his  thoughts  were  arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  lit- 
tle figure  running  in  his  direction  and  waving  her 
arms  wildly. 

It  was  Sally  Moss.  "Oh,  Deacon !  Deacon  Asher !  ^' 
she  was  crying.  "  Come  here,  come  over  here  an'  help 
her.  It 's  the  Dows'  little  Jersey  't  Eunice  bought 
up,  an'  the  dogs  were  worryin'  her  calf,  an'  she  got 
the  calf  behind  her,  an'  now  they  're  pullin'  her 
down.  Elder's  dog  an'  your  Bose  an'  Steve  Man- 
ners's  Bitters.  She's  got  at  ween  'em  an'  her  calf 
an'  so  they  're  a-tacklin'  her !  " 

The  Deacon  was  a  man  of  might  in  thew  and 
sinew ;  he  caught  hold  of  the  handles  of  his  scythe 
more  firmly  and  ran  along  with  her  as  she  turned, 
till  they  came  upon  the  scene  of  struggle;  and  he 
gave  Bose  a  kick  that  threw  him  out  yelping,  and 
with  both  hands  and  a  will  laid  the  flat  of  his  blade 
across  Bitters's  back,  and  sent  the  Elder's  dog  after 
Bose,  and  let  the  harassed  cow  go  free. 

"I  was  a-settin'  up  'ith  Eunice  Dow — she's 
fearful  sick,"  said  Sally,  catching  her  breath,  and 
her  eyes  sparkling.  "  You  git  kind  o'  tired  towards 
momin',  an'  you  look  out'n  the  winder  ter  the  stars 
thet's  failin',  for  the  fields  that  grows  gray  an' 
wakin',  for  the  sun-up,  or  settin'  ter  keep  yer  eyes 


1 6  The  Elder's  People 

open.  She  's  down  'ith  a  reel  bad  spell  o'  fever.  I 
knowed  she  was  a-fittin'  fer  it  Sabbath,  and  I  fixed 
thin's  so  's  I  could  be  on  hand.  I  do'  no  ef  she  '11  git 
over  it  or  unner  it.  But  she  will  ef  cold  v/ater  can 
du  it !  An'  I  see  the  critter.  I  was  scared  o'  the  dogs 
—  but  I  bed  ter  help  her,  the  poor  mother-thin' 
a-fightin'  fer  her  child.  I  'd  like  ter  see  the  father- 
critter'd  'a'  done  that.  Seenis  ter  me  fathers  are  made 
of  diff'runt  cloth  from  mothers.  There 's  you !  "  cried 
Sally,  turning  on  him  with  a  sudden  fury.  "  You 
promised  Mary  you  'd  look  out  fer  Reuel.  How  ye 
done  it  ?  An'  there  's  Miss  Dow  workin'  away  'ith 
me  fer  dear  life  over  Eunice,  an'  he  's  a-settin'  'ith 
his  pipe  down  by  the  h'arth.  I  'm  boun'  ter  say  he  's 
used  up  a  hull  card  o'  matches  keepin'  that  pipe 
goin'.  Eunice  's  the  mainstay  o'  the  family.  I  leam'd 
her  how,  an'  she  can  make  buttonholes — "  But 
Sally  was  talking  to  empty  air,  for  the  Deacon  had 
snapped  his  fingers  for  Bose,  and  was  stalking  off  to 
his  mowing.  The  whole  world  had  turned  on  him 
with  fury  lately. 

"  Wal,"  she  said,  "  I  guess  I  '11  make  ye  hark 
afore  I  git  thru  'ith  ye !  " 

Sally  might  not  have  been  so  positive  if  she  had 
not  known  that  where  Bitters  was  Steve  Manners  was 
not  likely  to  be  far  away,  and  if  she  had  not,  in  fact, 
seen  him  plodding  up  the  hill  with  his  staff — the 
Dows'  house  being  one  of  his  stages.  Sometimes, 
where  it  is  a  question  of  keeping  one's  balance,  a 


The  Deacon's  JVliistle  17 

.thread,  that  Avould  not  bear  the  weight  of  a  spider, 
if  one  can  but  touch  it,  gives  support. 

"  Come,  Bitters,"  called  his  master,  "  we  've  got 
considerable  of  a  stunt  ter-day  " ;  —  and  then  his  gay 
whistle  stopped  short,  as  he  saw  what  had  happened. 

"  Bitters !  "  he  cried  sharply,  dropping  his  staff, 
and  bounding  up  the  slope  and  throwing  himself  on 
the  wet  grass  beside  the  dog.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  Oh,  Bitters,  you  're  all 
I  got !  Don't  say  you  're  a-goin'  back  on  me  now  ! 
How  come  ye  so  ?  What  in  sin  should  I  du  'thout 
you.  Bitters ! "  The  stump  of  a  yellow  tail  stirred 
feebly.  "  Why,  Bitters  boy !  "  Steve  cried,  his  voice 
breaking. 

"Steve,"  said  Sally,  her  own  voice  quavering, 
while  she  twisted  her  fingers  till  they  hurt,  "I'm 
sorry  I  throwed  you  down  that  time." 

"  Oh,  that 's  no  matter,"  Steve  answered  frankly. 
"  Jes'  tell  me  how  in  time  did  this  happen  ?  Here, 
you  see  w'at  's  the  matter!  I  can't.  Why,  Bitters  is 
ben  the  same  ter  me  as  wife  an'  child  an'  all  that,  an' 
ef  Bitters  is  ter  die  — "  He  laid  his  head  on  the 
dog's  neck.  "  Don't  ye  leave  me.  Bitters,"  he  vrhis- 
pered  chokingly.  "I  —  I  couldn't  stand  that."  The 
dog  raised  his  head  a  trifle  and  lapped  his  master's 
face,  and  Steve's  voice  broke  down  in  a  loud  sob. 

"  Here,"  said  Sally.  "  He 's  a-comin'  reoun. 
Deacon  jes  sorter  stunned  him.  That 's  all.  He  was 
a-pullin'  down  Euny's  cow  all  right.  You  wanter  git 


1 8  The  Elder's  People 

even  'ith  the  Deacon  ?  Then  you  leave  Bitters  here 
ter  me,  an'  you  go  down  an*  find  Reuel.  Eunice  said 
she'd  die  afore  she'd  merry  him,  'ith  the  Deacon  so 
sot;  an'  you  tell  him  she's  a-dyin'.  P'r'aps  that  '11 
fetch  him." 

"  An'  leave  Bitters  ?  "  cried  Steve,  rising.  "  Not 
if  I  know  it.  Bitters  an'  I  've  seen  trouble  together, 
but  we  've  alius  sheered  it  an'  alius  will —  won't  we, 
ol'  dog?" 

Bitters  struggled  to  his  feet,  shook  himself,  and 
gave  a  short  and  sharp  reply. 

"  Wait,  till  I  get  him  a  bite  o'  suthin'!  "  said  Sally, 
running  up  to  the  house  that  sat  on  its  lonely  hill, 
gray  and  dreary  in  the  full  morning  light.  But  when 
she  would  have  returned,  Steve  and  Bitters  were 
gone,  whether  Steve  carried  the  dog  or  he  followed ; 
only  a  cheerful  strain  in  the  distance  seemed  to  say 
that  all  was  right. 

"  Wal,  that  's  fer  here  an'  now,"  she  said.  "  But 
herearter,  ef  Steve  an'  me  don't  go  together,  wing 
an'  wing,  an'  see  w'at  them  stars  are  made  of,  it  '11 
be  becos  I  ain't  fitten  to  keep  up  'ith  him,  and  I 
don'  know 's  I  be.  My !  This  ain't  no  way  ter  keer  fer 
the  sick." 

Mrs.  Dow  was  in  the  kitchen.  "I  ain't  got  any 
merlasses  fer  the  coffee,  Sally,"  she  said.  "An'  the 
ceow's  ben  so  put  abeout  she  won't  give  down  no 
milk  ter-day.  I  do'  know  w'at  we  '11  du." 

"We'll  play  we  like  it  jes'  's  't  is,"  said  Sally. 


The  Deacon* s  Whistle  19 

**  Jerry  with  Eunice  ?  Quiet  there,"  listening  a  mo- 
ment. "  Then  I  guess  I  '11  dry  my  feet,  though  I  do' 
know 's  you  'd  ketch  cold  in  summer  dew.  Remember 
w'en  we  washed  our  faces  in  June  dew  fer  the 
frecles?  Wat  fools  gels  be!  " 

Upstairs,  Jerry  was  bending  over  the  sick  girl. 
"  Don't  ye  know  me,  Euny  ?  "  he  was  whimpering. 
'*  Euny,  don't  ye  know  me  ?  Can't  ye  speak  ter  me  ?  " 

"Pa  —  dear,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
as  if  called  back  from  a  great  distance. 

"  Ye  ain't  goin'  fer  ter  die  an'  leave  us,  Euny,  be 
ye?  I  do'  know  w'atma  'n'  me  'd  du.  You  jes'  make 
up  yer  mind  ye  won't.  Makin'  up  yer  mind 's  a  gre't 
thin'. " 

It  was  apparently  too  great  a  thing  for  the  girl  to 
do.  Awake  now,  she  was  murmuring  again  excit- 
edly, tossing  her  head  from  side  to  side,  and  pres- 
ently calling  out  with  strange  incoherent  cries.  Sally, 
coming  in  swiftly  and  silently,  seized  the  father  by  the 
shoulder,  and,  in  spite  of  his  limp,  whirled  him  out 
of  the  room.  "  You  ain't  got  sense  enough  ter  scare  an 
owl!  "  she  exclaimed  outside  the  door.  "Jes'  's  we'd 
got  her  quiet !  Now  you  go  fer  the  doctor,  double- 
quick,  an'  then  see  ter  thet  cow !  Lord !  ef  I  'd  mer- 
ried  you,  Jerry  Dow,  I  'd  made  a  man  o'  ye ! " 

"  Wal,  ye  did  n't !  "  said  the  turning  worm. 

Sally  went  back,  and  let  the  bright  breeze  into  the 
room,  and  bathed  the  girl's  face  with  cold  water,  and 
found  another  pillow,  and  smoothed  the  sheets. 


20  The  Elder's  People 

"  Yes,  Reuel,"  sighed  the  sick  girl,  "  it 's  a  lovely 
night.  I  can  smell  the  sweetbrier  fum  the  swamp  clear 
here.  Oh,  ma,  I  can't  bear  the  smell  o'  that  sweetbrier ! 
Throw  it  in  the  fire,  won't  ye  ?  Wat  we  got  sech  a 
hot  fire  for  ter-day  ?  Oh,  that  sweetbrier  makes  me 
think  o'  the  night  Reuel  went  oflFjes'becos  —  Why, 
Reuel !  "  —  and  her  voice  mounted  higher  and  her 
words  came  more  quickly — "you  know  there ^s 
nobody  in  all  the  worl'  —  Oh,  yes,  I  du,  I  du !  But 
I  can't  leave  'em.  I  can't  leave  poor  ol'  pa.  They 
could  n't  git  along  er  tall.  You  must  n't  ask  me.  They 
don 't  hev  any  sort  of  a  good  time  —  oh,  yes,  I  du, 
'ith  you  a-comin',  an'  you  a-carin'  fer  me  —  oh,  I 
don 't  want  any  thin'  better.  W'y,  even  in' s  when  I  'm 
a-settin'  on  the  doorstep  'ith  you,  an'  the  w'ite  rose 
is  in  blow  —  Wunst  you  put  a  w'ite  rose  in  my  hair. 
I  kep'  the  rose  an'  pressed  it.  I  got  it  now.  I  love 
a  w'ite  rose,  don't  you  ?  You  said  my  hair  was  like 
com  silk  —  Oh,  Reuel,  Reuel,  where  be  ye  ?  Where 
you  gone  ?  I  can't  see,  I  can't  hear,  the  world 's  all 
black.  Oh,  Deacon  Asher  !  Oh,  he 's  off —  it 's  my 
fault  —  folks  ses  —  oh,  folks  ses  he 's  gone  ter  the  bad  ! 
He  could  n't  —  no  he  could  n't !  But  if  he  did,  I  sent 
him,  an'  Deacon  Asher  sent  him !  Oh,  I  should  n't 
think  you  would  —  you  was  all  the  world  to  me, 
Reuel,  Reuel  — "  And  as  the  broken  sentences  be- 
came more  rapid  and  indistinct,  Sally  began  to  think 
of  cutting  oflPthe  corn-silk  hair. 

The  fever  was  higher  the  next  day,  and  the  delir- 


The  DeacorC  s  Whistle  21 

ium  wilder,  an  unceasing,  low  mutter,  only  one  word 
in  it,  her  lover's  name,  being  now  and  again  distin- 
guishable. But  by  nightfall  the  strength  was  gone, 
and  the  sufferer  lay  in  stupor  or  in  deep  sleep  —  it 
was  not  easy  for  the  good  countr)^  doctor  to  say 
which. 

The  nightfall  had  purpled  into  a  dewy  dusk,  with 
the  stars  hanging  out  of  it  large  as  lamps,  and  the 
air  full  of  wandering  scents  from  the  spice-bush,  the 
balm,  and  the  white  roses,  when  the  latch  of  the 
kitchen  door  lifted  and  a  young  man  stepped  in 
quickly. 

"  How  's  Eunice  ?  "  he  whispered,  hoarsely.  "  Is 
she  alive  ?  Tell  me !  Is  she  alive  ?  It 's  me,  Mr. 
Dow.   Steve  told  me  —  good  God,  sir,  she  ain't  —  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Jerry  without  stirring, 
where  he  sat  with  his  head  against  the  bricks  of  the 
big  oven.  "  Mebbe  she  is,  mebbe  she  is  n't.  They 
keep  me  eout.  Wen  ye  hear  the  cheers  scrape  back 
overhead,  you  '11  know  cert' in.  I  'm  a-listenin'.  Wen 
it  ain't  no  use  ter  keep  still,  folks  don't  keep  still 
any  more.  She  's  all  the  gel  I  got."  And  the  voice 
went  babbling  on  wearily. 

But  the  young  man  had  already  bounded  up  the 
stairs,  noiseless  as  a  cat,  and  was  at  the  door  of  the 
room  overhead,  was  in  the  room,  was  on  his  knees 
by  the  bed  where  the  slender  form  lay  shrunken  and 
pitiful  among  the  pillows.  There  was  no  sound  in 
the  room  except  now  and  then  that  of  a  low  flutter- 


22  The  Elder's  People 

ing  breath  and  the  tapping  of  the  rose  upon  the 
blind. 

Sally  sat  at  the  bed's  head,  erect,  sparkling  with 
nervous  force,  watching  for  the  enemy  she  fought  in 
the  dark ;  but  Mrs.  Dow,  worn  out  with  grief  and 
terror  and  fatigue,  had  dropped  her  head  upon  the 
quilt  at  the  foot  of  the  other  side  and  slept  pro- 
foundly. Perhaps  an  hour  passed,  while  he  still  knelt 
there.  Then  Sally  leaned  forward  and  touched  him 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger.  The  girl  had  begun  to 
stir.  She  touched  him  again  before  he  lifted  his  hag- 
gard face.  And  with  that  she  pointed  at  the  window, 
and  the  blossoming  branch  looking  in  there.  He 
stared  at  her  wonderingly  a  moment,  and  then, 
through  some  unknown  intuition,  her  meaning  flashed 
upon  him.  He  moved  silently  to  the  window  and 
tore  off  spray  after  spray  of  the  roses,  and  stripped 
them  of  their  thorns,  and  shook  them  dry  of  dew, 
and  brought  them  back  and  laid  them  in  the  hollow 
of  the  sick  girl's  arm,  and  in  a  few  minutes  their 
pungent  perfume  filled  the  small  bare  room. 

Presently  the  rich,  sweet  breath  penetrated  the 
girl's  consciousness,  and,  as  if  she  were  aware  of  their 
atmosphere,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  Reuel,  and 
a  heavenly  smile  kindled  her  face  to  its  old  beauty, 
before  she  lapsed  back  into  the  semi-stupor. 

"  Now,"  said  Sally,  "  we  gotter  fight !  You  go 
downstairs,  Reuel,  quick  meter.  Wake  up.  Mis' 
Dow!    It's  time   ter   hyper.    Rub   her   feet,   w'ile 


The  Deacon's  Whistle  23 

I  git  the  brandy.  Three  o'clock  to-night  '11  tell  the 
story ! " 

Lyra  and  the  great  constellations  wheeled  slowly 
overhead,  while  Reuel  walked  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  the  path  between  the  hollyhocks  all  night. 
Their  cold  sparkle  seemed  something  indifferent,  even 
hostile.  What  else  could  the  power  that  set  them 
in  their  place  be  to  him  ?  But  Eunice  —  the  lovely 
young  thing  who  had  never  done  wrong  in  her  life ! 
Far  off,  down  by  the  coast,  the  dark  sea  was  draw- 
ing its  tides  out  and  away  to  the  great  deeps.  A  dim 
sense  of  the  mystery  of  sea  and  stars  mingled  with 
his  pain.  How  infinitely  far  off  he  was  from  help! 
The  cool  dampness  of  the  night  blew  about  him, 
loaded  with  fragrance  from  farm  and  field,  but  it 
did  not  soothe  the  fever  of  his  fear  and  his  despair. 
At  every  turn  in  his  walk  he  looked  up  with  a  sink- 
ing heart  and  a  dull  horror  at  the  window's  faint 
glimmer.  And  suddenly  he  fell  on  his  knees;  he  did  n't 
dare  pray,  he  only  murmured  over  and  over :  "  She 's 
sech  a  young  thing!  She  never  done  wrong  in  her 
bom  days.  She  loves  to  live.  Oh,  Christ !  She  loves 
to  live !  "  And  then  a  step  on  the  turf,  and  on  his 
shoulder  a  hand  whose  touch  for  a  moment  seemed 
that  of  some  messenger  from  far  beyond.  Perhaps  it 
was ;  for  Elder  Perry,  coming  home  from  a  death- 
bed at  the  other  end  of  the  settlement,  had  seen 
Reuel  moving  to  and  fro  like  a  fierce  shadow  and 
had  divined  his  trouble. 


24  The  Elder's  People 

"You  Ve  come  back,  Reuel?"  he  said.  "That's 
good.  Perhaps  that  was  an  oath  I  heard ;  but  I  think 
the  Lord  takes  it  for  a  prayer  —  " 

"Sh  —  sh!"  whispered  Reuel,  struggling  to  his 
feet.  "  Oh,  gol-dum  them  birds !  They  '11  wake  her 
up !  "  For  a  sweet  pipe  remotely  singing  had  been 
answered  by  a  burst  of  music  far  and  near. 

"Then  it  will  be  best  for  her.  There  can't  any- 
thing happen,"  said  the  low-voiced  Elder,  "  that 
won't  be  best  for  her." 

"  But  not  for  me,"  groaned  Reuel. 

"  And  for  you,  too.  We  can't  any  of  us  go  so  far 
in  this  universe  as  to  escape  God's  love.  I  was  feel- 
ing it  pouring  all  about  me  as  I  walked  over  the 
hills." 

"Oh,  you!  "said  Reuel. 

The  morning  star  himg  like  a  jewel  melting  into 
the  gold-gray  of  the  sky.  To  the  Elder  it  shone  like 
the  forehead  of  some  archangelic  keeper  of  the  gates 
of  heaven,  each  a  great  pearl,  with  lambent  lights 
below,  roseate  and  golden,  shadows  of  faint  lavender 
and  streaks  of  fire.  But  Reuel  saw  nothing  of  it ;  he 
saw  a  little  dark  figure  flying  down  the  path  like  a 
witch  on  a  broomstick. 

"It 's  all  right!  "  Sally  was  exclaiming,  as  soon 
as  she  was  near  enough  to  be  heard  just  under  her 
breath.  "  She  's  woke  up,  an'  took  notice.  She 's 
rekerlected  you  was  there.  She  's  had  a  sup  o'  milk. 
No  !  "  putting  a  hand  like  a  grip  of  steel  on  Reuel's 


The  Deacon's  Whistle  25 

arm.  "  Not  on  yer  life !  Ye  can't  see  her  yit.  I 
would  n't  let  you  fer  a  farm." 

Reuel  stood  a  moment,  bewildered,  half  stunned. 
And  then  his  face  quivered,  the  tears  gushed  out. 
"  Oh!  "  he  cried.   "Oh,  I  want  my  father!  " 

Deacon  Asher  was  standing  on  his  porch  drink- 
ing in  the  deliciousness  of  the  morning  without 
knowing  it.  He  thought  he  was  waiting  for  Marthy 
to  settle  his  coffee.  The  birds  were  not  yet  silent,  the 
bees  were  abroad  and  busy,  the  butterflies  were  s%vim- 
ming  round  the  cinnamon-roses,  the  blue  was  burn- 
ing overhead  shot  through  and  through  with  sun- 
shine. "  It 's  a  great  haying-day,"  he  said.  "  Great." 
But  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  the  thought  or  in 
the  tone.  He  looked  across  the  wide  fields,  billow- 
ing with  shadows  of  sailing  clouds,  and  up  at  the  bare 
and  lonely  little  house  on  the  hill  where  his  enemy 
was  in  trouble.  And  then  he  saw  some  one  dash- 
ing down  the  hill,  across  the  brook,  and  up  the  long 
slope  leading  to  his  door.  A  pang,  half  like  a  tender 
reminiscence,  half  like  a  fresh  and  angry  sting,  struck 
through  him  like  a  shudder.  And  the  next  moment, 
the  Deacon  had  sprung  down  the  steps,  and  was  plung- 
ing with  leaps  and  bounds  to  throw  his  mighty  arms 
about  the  boy  who  flung  himself  upon  his  breast. 

"  Oh,  she 's  goin'  ter  live,  father !  She 's  goin'  ter 
live !  "  cried  Reuel. 

"  My  son !  My  son !  '*  the  Deacon  answered, 
clasping  him  closer  and  closer. 


26  The  Elder's  People 

Marthy  was  at  the  window,  the  flashing  of  the 
sun  on  the  milk-pans  reflected  in  the  tears  on  her 
face  like  a  glory.  "  This  won't  never  du/'  she  said, 
flicking  off"  the  tears  with  her  fingers  as  she  went  to 
the  door.  "  I  '11  be  havin'  'em  both  down  on  my 
ban's.  Reuel,  that  you  ?  "  she  said,  lowering  the 
key  at  once.  "  Wal,  come  right  in.  The  coffee 's 
spilin'." 

"Father,"  said  Reuel,  standing  with  his  head 
bowed,  "I  done  wrong." 

"  We  '11  both  on  us  do  right,  boy,"  said  the  Dea- 
con. And  they  went  in  together. 


A  CHANGE  OF  HEART 


n 

A  Change  of  Heart 

SOMETIMES,  in  spite  of  himself,  a  smile  would 
flash  over  Elder  Perry's  face,  although  he  was 
in  the  pulpit,  if  he  happened  to  catch  his  wife's  eye. 
Those  of  the  congregation  who  felt  they  had  no 
other  way  of  getting  to  heaven  than  through  the 
Elder's  good  offices  thought  the  smile  a  beam  of 
blessed  light ;  those  of  the  opposition  wondered  what 
ailed  the  man.  But  the  opposition  was  very  small, 
and  usually  contented  itself  with  fighting  Jonah's 
whale,  and  Genesis,  and  Kings  in  general. 

But  Mrs.  Perry  knew  that  in  the  instant  of  the 
smile  the  Elder's  glance  had  fallen  on  Mrs.  Means, 
with  her  little  girl's  head  resting  in  sleep  on  her 
shoulder,  suddenly  glaring  at  Mrs.  Warner  as  if  she 
had  just  remembered  how  she  hated  her,  and  Mrs. 
Warner,  with  her  little  boy  beside  her,  glaring  back 
again  as  if  she  had  hated  Mrs.  Means  all  along. 

"  Fact  is,"  said  Miss  Mahala  Brooks,  "  the  two 
women  each  wanted  ter  hev  t'  other  one's  husband 
before  they  was  married  at  all,  an'  did  n't  want  the 
husband  they  did  hev.  Sounds  awfle,  don't  it  ?  They 
useter  be  thick  as  peas  in  a  pod  w'en  they  was  gels 
—  wore  each  other's  gownds  till  you  couldn't  tell 


30  The  Elder*  s  People 

t'  other  from  which.    Puts  me  in  mind  of  an  old 

song: 

**  *  There 's  some  folks  allers  moans  a  bit 
About  the  man  they  did  n't  git, 
But  I  think  we  needn't  make  a  fuss 
If  the  man  we  don't  want  didn't  git  us.*  " 

"  Come,  come,   now.   Miss  Mahaly !    I  'm  sur- 
prised." 

"  An'  there 's  Thirzy,  just  as  white  an'  delicate  like 
as  John  Means  was,  an'  Mis'  Warner  looking  her 
over  as  ef  she  was  fairly  hungry  for  her  an'  could  n't 
keep  her  hands  otT'n  her;  an'  there's  Jo  growin' 
up  the  spit  and  image  of  Josiah  Warner,  tall  an' 
straight,  'ith  a  black  eye  like  a  half-burned  coal,  an' 
Mis'  Means  stealin'  looks  at  him  an'  feelin'  he'd 
orter  to   be  hem.    Sing'lar  w'at  made  both  them 
men  die  so  early.   'Twam't  becos  they  was  mis- 
mated  ;  for  they  was  suited.  Mis'  Means  might  'a' 
be'n  a  reel  good  wife  ter  the  right  one.  As  it  was,  I 
s'pose   she  done  her  duty  —  I  do'  know.    But  the 
black  she  put  on  fer  John  was  beautiful.  She  give  a 
good  deal  of  attention  to  it,  an'  hemmed  the  crapes 
herself.   Sometimes  I   thought  —  Josiah  dyin'  near 
the  same  time  —  that  the  black  was  reely  more  for 
Josiah.    But  you  can't  look  inter  people's  feelin's. 
They  kep'  dark.  On'y  every  Sabbath  in  the  meetin'- 
hus  you  can  see  Mis'   Means  lookin'  an'  longin'  at 
little  Jo,  an'  Mis'  Warner's  face  as  good  as  sayin' 
that  Thirzy  'd  be'n  stole  in  her  cradle.  'T  ain't  as  ef 


A  Change  of  Heart  31 

they  did  n*t  keer  for  their  own,  eyther.  Mis'  Means 
loves  her  Thirzy  to  distraction  —  'pears  to ;  an' 
Mis'  Warner  useter  raise  the  neighborhood  ef  Jo 
bumped  his  head.  But  they  would  n't  miss  go  in'  ter 
meetin'  Sabbaths,  rain  or  shine,  so  's  ter  hate  each 
other  a  little  wuss,  an'  see  them  childem  that  looks 
so  like  their  fathers.  It 's  kinder  immoral.  They 
don't  speak,  you  know." 

"All  the  same,"  said  the  Elder — he  had  but  lately 
come  to  the  place  and  was  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  people  —  "I  am  ashamed  of  smiling.  I  don't  know 
how  I  could.  It  is  tragedy.  Four  lives  spoiled  —  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  Josiah  an'  John's  all  right." 

"  Well,  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  for  the 
others.  It 's  not  wholesome  to  live  in  hate.  Poisons 
the  blood.  I  don't  know.  Miss  Mahaly,"  he  added 
presently,  with  a  shrewd  glance.  "I  hope  we  haven't 
been  gossiping." 

"  Land,  Elder !  W'en  you  've  be'n  in  the  woods 
as  long  as  I  hev,  you  '11  find  it 's  bread  an'  meat  ter 
hear  about  folks  !  " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Elder,  as  he  went  his 
way,  "  it  seems  to  be  a  need  of  human  nature.  Even 
the  South  Sea  Islander  has  his  Talking  Man." 

The  cart  path  turned  to  the  right  across  a  piece 
of  woods  where  the  sun  fell  through  the  emerald 
depths  in  shafts  of  green  light,  and  the  good  man 
offered  thanks  in  his  heart  for  the  exceeding  beauty 
of  the   hour.     At   the   end  of  the   path  he  found 


32  The  Elder's  People 

Mrs.  Warner  sitting  on  her  doorstep,  shelling  peas, 
while  Jo  was  splitting  kindlings  at  the  chopping- 
block. 

"  He  won't  let  me,"  said  Mrs.  Warner  apologeti- 
cally. 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  the  Elder. 

"Come  right  in.  Elder,"  she  said,  bustling  her 
peas  out  of  the  way.  And  the  Elder  found  himself  in 
a  big  room  where  the  pine- wood  walls  had  turned 
the  color  of  a  chestnut,  and  where  patchwork  quilts 
swung  as  curtains  and  partitions  —  a  place  full  of 
golden-brown  shadows,  with  an  atmosphere,  as  the 
sun  came  in,  half  cheer,  half  melancholy. 

"  What  handsome  quilts !  "  said  the  Elder. 

"  P'r'aps  they  be,  though  I  do  say  it,"  she  replied, 
wiping  off  a  chair.  "I  was  pertic'lar  about  the  pieces. 
I  like  ter  keep  it  bright  an'  pleasant  fer  the  boy. 
There  ain't  nothin'  more  heart'nin'  than  colors.  W'en 
he  gits  big  enough  he  means  ter  finish  off  the  house 
inside.  But  as  't  is,  — you  see." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Elder.  "  Pleasant.  And  how  do  you 
carry  on  the  farm  \  It 's  a  pretty  big  farm." 

"  Oh,  on  sheers.  Deacon  Harding  works  it  by  the 
halves.  He  thinks  he  'd  orter  hev  half  the  eggs,  tew. 
But  I  drawed  the  line  at  eggs.  Bime-by  Jo  '11  take 
it  over  himself." 

"He's  a  fine  boy." 

"  Ain't  he  now !  An'  he  thinks  his  mother  stood 
roun'  w'en  the  world  was  made." 


A  Change  of  Heart  33 

"  He 's  about  the  age  of  little  Thirzy  Means,  ain't 
he?'' 

"  Who  ? "  said  Mrs.  Warner,  drawing  herself  up 
a  trifle.  "  No.  He  's  consider'ble  older.  Though  I 
s'pose  her  mother  '11  be  for  makin'  Thirzy  out  younger 
'n  's  right.  There  ain't  no  dependence  on  Mis' 
Means." 

"  Thirzy 's  a  nice  child." 

"  Ef  't  wam't  fer  her  mother.  But  you  can't  make 
silk  out'n  cotton." 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Means  at  meeting.  She  did  n't  seem 
like  that." 

"  No.  You  'd  say  butter  would  n't  melt  in  her 
mouth.  But  you'll  excuse  me.  Elder.  I  don't  need 
ter  hear  nothin'  about  Mis'  Means." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  the  Elder,  "that  that  isn't 
real  Christian  feeling." 

"  I  know  it.  But  I  ain't  no  reason  to  love  her. 
She  kep'  me  out  o'  heaven  here,  and  I  s'pose  she  '11 
keep  me  out  o'  heaven  there !  " 

"Poh!  poh!"  said  the  Elder.  "Nobody  can  do 
that  but  you  yourself.  You'd  better  kiss  and  be 
friends,  you  two." 

"  There  ain't  no  Judas  in  me.  W'en  I  take  a  scut 
I  speak  right  out.  —  Kinder  warm,  walkin'  thru  the 
woods.  I  '11  fetch  a  tumbler  o'  rosb'ry  s'rub.  It 's 
reel  coolin'.  " 

The  Elder  retraced  his  steps  through  the  wood,  a 
little  downhearted.  He  was  afraid  he    had  a  task 


34  The  Elder's  People 

beyond  his  powers.  As  he  crossed  a  swampy  spot  an 
exquisite  perfume  stole  along  the  way,  and  he  saw 
an  azalea  bush  lifting  its  white  blossoms  beside  him. 
He  stopped  to  breathe  the  delicious  air  a  minute. 
"  Flower,"  he  said,  "  you  are  preaching  me  a  little 
sermon.  Here  you  are,  cut  as  fine  as  the  fine  rays  of 
the  stars  of  heaven,  and  hid  in  the  forest,  without 
fruit  for  bird  and  with  little  honey  for  the  bee,  just 
because  the  Lord  loves  beauty.  And  if  He  takes  such 
care  for  you,  fashioning  you  so  delicately  and  sweetly, 
surely  He  will  take  as  much  for  these  troublesome 
souls  of  ours."  And  he  went  on,  somewhat  cheered 
by  his  fancy. 

The  Elder  found  Mrs.  Means  at  the  other  end  of 
the  cart  path.  Her  small  house  was  half  covered  with 
trained  honeysuckle  and  sweetbrier ;  she  herself  looked 
something  like  a  withered  honeysuckle  flower.  She 
was  teaching  little  Thirzy  to  sew. 

"I  take  this  reel  kind  in  you.  Elder,"  she  said. 
"  Set  right  down,  an'  let  me  git  you  a  palm  leaf  fan. 
I  don't  s'pose  you'd  keer  fer  jes'  a  thimbleful  o'  my 
cherr}^  bounce  ?  It 's  rether  heatin'." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Elder.  "I  had  some  shrub 
over  at  Mrs.  Warner's."  He  saw  Mrs.  Means  bridle 
and  toss  her  head.  "  She  has  a  hard  time,  the  poor 
woman ! "  he  said.  "  She  is  n't  left  so  forehanded  as 
some."  And  he  glanced  about  the  little  room  with 
its  wax  flowers  and  a  chromo  framed  in  shells. 

"I  guess  she  don't  have  no  harder  time  'n  she 


A  Change  of  Heart  35 

deserves,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  we  don't  speak  her 
name  in  this  house,  Elder.  How  'd  you  find  old  Mis* 
Dacre  ?  She  's  been  a  long  time  steppin'  acrost  Jor- 
dan. Seems  reely  as  ef  she  wam't  willin'." 

"  Few  of  us  are,  Mrs.  Means.  It 's  a  beautiful 
world.  Few  of  us  are  so  ungrateful  as  not  to  be  loath 
to  leave  it." 

*'Not  fer  those  shinin'  shores?"  asked  Mrs. 
Means,  demurely.   "  I  often  set  and  ponder  —  " 

"All  in  good  time,  Mrs.  Means.  All  in  good 
time.  Perhaps  when  we  're  fit  and  ready.  How  sweet 
your  honeysuckle  is  !  " 

"  You  think  so  ?  It  smells  to  me  a  little  like  gin- 
ger, and  puts  me  in  mind  o'  things  cookin'.  And 
I  'm  sech  a  poor  hand  at  my  victuals  —  " 

The  Elder  laughed.  "  Come  here,  Thirz}^,"  he 
said  then,  "  and  let  me  hear  that  little  hymn  you 
were  singing."  And  under  her  mother's  beckoning 
nod  and  glance  Thirzy  repeated  one  hymn  and  then 
another  and  another,  till,  seeing  that  he  had  not  time 
to  hear  the  whole  hymn-book,  the  Elder  said  good- 
bye. 

Her  mother  took  Thirzy  in  her  lap  and  kissed 
her.  "You  did  it  reel  pretty,"  she  said.  "You're 
mother's  dear.  Mother  learned  them  to  you." 

"  You  're  not  very  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Perry  to 
her  husband  that  evening,  as  they  sat  at  their  door 
looking  down  the  dark  glades  of  the  wood  in  the 
starlight. 


36  The  Elder's  People 

"  No.  I  'm  what  Miss  Mahala  would  call  low  in 
my  mind,"  he  replied.  "  I  don't  see  any  way  to  take 
the  venom  out  of  the  hearts  of  those  two  women." 

"  God  will  find  out  a  way,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm.   "  With  you  helping  Him." 

"  It 's  a  beautiful  thing  to  feel  that  God  calls  on 
us  to  help  Him,  is  n't  it  ? "  said  the  Elder. 

But  a  few  days  later  the  Elder,  walking  again 
through  the  wood  to  the  other  side  of  his  wide  par- 
ish, saw  at  a  distance  through  the  green  spaces  what 
he  might  have  taken  for  little  wild  woodland  crea- 
tures of  faery.  He  paused  to  look,  and  saw  Jo,  with 
his  trousers  rolled  above  the  knee,  and  Thirzy,  with 
her  skirts  pinned  up,  dancing  in  the  shallow  brook 
and  throwing  the  water  over  each  other  in  shining 
handfuls,  with  shrieks  of  laughter.  "  I  guess  the 
Lord  is  doing  it  without  help  from  me,"  he  said,  as 
he  went  on. 

But  if  that  were  so,  when  a  dozen  years  of  the 
Elder's  pastorate  had  gone  there  was  no  outward  in- 
dication of  it  —  only  the  two  children,  who  had 
played  together  in  the  brook  without  their  mothers 
knowing  it,  now  looked  at  each  other  across  the 
meeting-house,  the  young  man  with  his  bold,  dark 
glance,  and  the  other  with  the  swift  blush  that  an* 
swered  it.  But  the  mothers  —  Mrs.  Means  a  little 
more  like  the  withered  honeysuckle  flower  than  be- 
fore, and  Mrs.  Warner  almost  nut-brown,  and  spar- 


A  Change  of  Heart  37 

kllng  at  every  point  with  her  electric  force  —  sat  up 
as  defiant  as  ever.  The  sting  and  smart  of  the  orig- 
inal wrong  might  have  long  since  ceased,  but  the 
feeling  it  had  made  remained. 

"  Thirzy  Means  !  "  said  her  mother.  "  Who  was 
that  come  home  'ith  you  fum  meetin'  to-night  ?  " 

"Why,  mother  — "  making  time  by  dropping 
her  hat  and  picking  it  up  again,  the  crimson  of  her 
face  invisible  in  the  dim  room  where  her  mother  had 
been  looking  out  behind  the  blinds. 

"  Who  was  it,  Thirzy  ?  "  with  an  insistent  tone 
there  was  no  gainsaying. 

"It  was  Jo." 

"Jo  who?" 

"  There  is  n't  but  one  Jo.  And  there  is  n't  but 
one  Jo  for  me,  mother,  in  all  the  world !  "  cried  the 
girl. 

"  My  land  ! "  gasped  the  mother.  "  After  all  I  've 
be'n  thru !  After  all  I  've  done  fer  you !  Takin'  the 
bread  out'n  my  own  mouth,  an'  makin'  every 
gownd  you  ever  hed  —  to  hev  it  come  ter  this  !  Oh, 
you  're  a-killin'  me,  you  're  a-killin'  of  me  ! "  And 
bursting  into  sobs,  of  which  Thirzy,  pained  and  be- 
wildered, at  first  failed  to  take  notice,  Mrs.  Means 
presently  began  to  laugh,  and  then  to  scream,  and 
then  to  sob  and  gurgle  again.  And  all  that  Thirzy 
could  do  was  to  run  for  Miss  Mahala,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  the  next  neighbor,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away. 


38  The  Elder* s  People 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  "  cried  Thirzy,  coming 
back  breathless,  and  finding  her  mother  still  beating 
the  air.  "  Don't !  dearest  mother,  don't !  I  did  n't 
know  —  I  don't  know  now  —  I  did  n't  mean  —  I 
won't  do  nothin'  you  don't  want  me  to  do!  I — I 
—  "  But  Mrs,  Means  still  sobbed  and  laughed  and 
screamed  and  scuffled. 

"Them  high-strikes!"  said  Miss  Mahala  con- 
temptuously. "  There  ain't  nothin'  so  good  for  'em 
as  b'ilin'  water.  You  jes'  put  some  sticks  an'  paper 
an'  a  hull  sheet  o'  matches  together,  Thirzy,  an'  git 
some  water  het  scaldin'.  We'll  pour  it  down  her 
throat  ef  we  hev  ter  take  a  funnel !  " 

"  Oh,  where  am  I  ? ''  moaned  Mrs.  Means, 
through  a  subsiding  sob.  "  What  has  happened  ? 
Oh,  Thirzy,  I  do'  know  but  what  I  'm  a-dyin'.  I  'm 
a-dyin',  —  an'  then  you  can  hev  things  yer  own  way. 
Your  poor  old  mother  —  " 

"  You  're  feelin'  some  better,  Mis'  Means,'*  said 
Miss  Mahala. 

"  P'r'aps  so.  A  little  mite.  I  don't  think  there  '11 
be  no  need  —  " 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  never  meant  —  I  won't  —  " 

"  You  be  still,  Thirzy,"  said  Miss  Mahala,  still 
holding  the  matches  in  her  hand.  "Don't  go  to 
makin'  no  promises  —  " 

"Oh,  but  I  never  thought  to  see  her  so  put 
about  I "  exclaimed  Thirzy.  "And  Jo  would  be  sech 
a  good  son  to  you,  mother  —  " 


A  Change  of  Heart  39 

Mrs.  Means  began  to  gasp  again. 

"  Never  mind,  mother,  dear  little  mother !  "  cried 
Thirzy,  in  an  agony.  "  I  '11  tell  him  to  go !  I  will ! 
But,  oh,  it  will  break  my  heart !  "  And  then  Thirzy 
was  crying. 

"  Sakes ! ''  said  Miss  Mahala.  "  Two  on  'em  on 
my  ban's.  Thirzy!  You  stop!  Leave  off!  You've 
got  more  sense  —  " 

"  She 's  promised,"  said  Mrs.  Means  feebly. 
"  You  've  promised,  Thirzy.  An'  you  've  allers  kep' 
your  promises.  Remember,  you  've  promised.  I  guess 
I  '11  go  to  bed,  ef  I  can  make  out  to  git  there." 

"  I  '11  help  you,  mother !  "  And  with  her  arm 
about  her  mother,  who  swayed  a  little  more  than 
was  necessary,  Thirzy  led  her  up  the  narrow  stairs. 

"I  shan't  be  with  you  long,"  she  said  tearfully, 
as  Thirzy  helped  her  undress.  "My  own  mother 
died  at  jes'  my  age.  [I  mind  how  I  felt  about  every 
triflin'  thing  I  done.  Though  't  wam't  much,  I  see 
now  —  for  I  mos'  worshiped  the  groun'  she  walked 
on,  an'  it 's  b'en  a  gre't  comfort  to  me  that  I  did. 
But  I  wanter  spare  you  even  thet.  Kiss  me,  Thirzy." 

"  There !  An'  there,  mother  dear !  An'  I  '11  tell 
Jo  to  go  "  —  her  voice  breaking.  And  having  bathed 
her  mother's  face  in  the  Cologne  water,  kept  this 
dozen  years  or  more  for  show,  and  having  shut  out 
the  moonlight  and  left  her  quiet  and  falling  asleep, 
Thirzy  went  to  see  Miss  Mahala  safely  to  her  own 
door. 


40  The  Elder*  s  People 

"You  can  tell  him  to  go/'  said  Miss  Mahala. 
"But  it  don't  foller  that  he's  a-goin'.  I'll  set  the 
Elder  onto  her,  an'  then  we'll  see.  Yes,  you  may 
come  halfway ;  not  a  step  furder.  It 's  bright  moon- 
light, an'  there 's  Elder's  Tige  barkin'  to  it.  Thirzy 

—  oncet  I  was  jes'  sech  a  fool  as  you  be.  An'  it 's 
lef  me  high  an'  dry  an'  alone.  It 's  nights  like  this 
brings  it  all  back  to  me.  The  breath  of  the  honey- 
suckle an'  the  wild  rose  ain't  no  sweeter  'n  I  thinked 
my  life  was  ter  be.  There  ain't  no  sense  in  breakin' 
two  hearts  fer  one.  Who 's  that  ?  Sakes  alive,  ef 
't  ain't  Jo  Warner  !  Lor',  how  you  scairt  me  !  Now, 
Thirzy,  you  go  slow !  "  And  Miss  Mahala  picked 
up  her  skirts  and  ran  on  as  if  Pharaoh,  her  cat,  were 
expecting  her  and  she  must  not  keep  him  waiting. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Jo.  "What  are 
you  goin'  slow  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Jo !  Mother  —  I  've  had  to  promise  mother 

—  I  —  I  thought  she  was  dyin',"  began  Thirzy.  And 
then,  her  knees  failing,  she  sank  upon  the  dry  grass, 
hiding  her  face  with  her  hands  and  weeping  bitterly. 

In  a  moment  Jo  had  caught  her  up.  "Thirzy, 
my  love,  my  little  wife !  "  he  was  whispering. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  never  can  be  that  —  I  've  promised 
mother  —  " 

"  You  mean  you  set  more  by  her  than  you  do  by 


me ! " 


She  knew,  although  she  could  not  see,  how  his 
eyes  flashed  in  the  moonlight. 


A  Change  of  Heart  41 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  never !  It 's  difF'runt.  She  said  I 
was  killin'  her.  She  said  she  was  dyin'.  I  thought 
mebbe  she  was.  She  —  she 's  my  mother,  you  know." 

"  Dashed  if  I  don't !  "  said  Jo. 

"  An'  I  've  promised  her  to  tell  you  to  go  —  " 

"Go?  You  an'  me  can't  part,"  he  said,  still 
holding  her.  "  We  're  all  the  same  as  one.  I  would 
n't  give  a  cent  for  life  'thouten  the  hope  of  you.  An' 
you  ain't  a-goin'  ter  kill  me  tew,  be  ye  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  w'at  to  do,"  moaned Thirzy. 
"  Only  —  only  you  must  go,  Jo  !  "  And  she  clung 
to  him  so  that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  him 
to  go. 

"  Here,"  said  Jo.  "  Let 's  set  down  an'  git  quiet 
like."  And  side  by  side,  with  his  arms  about  her, 
and  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  they  sat  on  a  mossy 
log  in  the  dusk  of  the  trees  and  gazed  now  into  the 
gloom  of  the  green  aisles,  where  the  light  fell  on  this 
leaf  and  on  that,  turning  them  into  great  white  flow- 
ers, and  now  into  the  depths  of  sky  where  the  moon 
sailed  low.  Far  off  the  dogs  of  distant  farms  an- 
swered Tige  and  one  another  v/ith  faint  hayings,  and 
a  bird  trilled  a  snatch  of  song  as  if  it  woke  from 
sleep  and  dreamed  off  again.  And  then  it  was  so  still 
they  might  have  heard  the  dew  gather. 

They  sat  there  till  the  spell  of  the  dark  and  cool 
tranquillity  entered  their  souls,  and  their  lips  clung 
together  in  long  tender  kisses. 

"  Now,"  said  Jo,  "  you  've  told  me  to  go.  But  I 


42  The  Elder's  People 

belong  to  you  an'  you  to  me;  an'  we  '11  stay  content 
with  that  for  a  spell,  an'  give  her  time  to  think  it 
over  an'  simmer  down.  An'  then  I  '11  come  an'  talk 
'ith  her."  And  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  he 
watched  her  to  her  door. 

"  That  you,  Thirzy  ? "  said  her  mother  dreamily. 
"  You  see  Miss  Mahaly  home  ?  I  've  hed  an  awfle 
dream.  I  dreamt  you  was  with  Jo  Warner  in  the 
wood  —  " 

"  I  was,  mother,"  said  Thirzy.  "  An'  I  told  him 
w'at  I  promised  you  I  would.  It  did  n't  do  any 
good." 

"  I  should  thought  he  'd  hed  more  sperrit.  But  — 
I  guess  he  '11  come  to  it.  I  did  n't  expec'  he  'd  take 
it  easy  to  fust.  There,  now,  I  can  go  to  sleep  ele- 
gant." 

But  Jo  Warner  never  had  the  opportunity  to  talk 
with  Mrs.  Means.  "  You  see,"  said  Miss  Mahala,  as 
she  and  Mrs.  Perry  stood  together,  "  a  person  can 
take  a  reel  bad  cold,  ef  't  is  on  a  summer's  night, 
a-hoppin'  out'n  a  warm  bed  an'  runnin'  barefoot 
thru  the  dew,  sorter  spy  in'  like.  An'  Mis'  Means 
hed  n't  no  staminy,  an'  pneumony  acts  quick.  Looks 
reel  nat'ral,  don't  she  ?  She  'd  admire  ter  see  herself. 
Pity.  Thirzy  's  all  broke  down  nussin'.  W'en  Mis' 
Means  was  fust  took,  she  ses,  ses  she,  '  Ef  I  'm  a-goin' 
ter  pass  away,  I  s'pose  I  better  forgive  Ann  War- 
ner; but  ef  I  git  well,'  ses  she,  '  I  do'  know.'  An'  then, 


A  Change  of  Heart  43 

jes'  before  the  last,  she  riz  up  an'  w'ispers,  ^  P'r'aps 
I  'd  better  take  it  back/  Thirzy's  ear  was  to  her 
mouth.  '  Take  what  back,  mother  ? '  ses  she.  But 
Mis'  Means  never  spoke  ag'in.  I  expec'  Thirzy  '11 
allers  think  of  her  mother  as  one  of  the  saints  let 
down.  An'  them  that  knows  better  can  let  it  alone. 
Thirzy  's  a-takin'  of  it  hard.  She  would  n't  let  Jo  in 
w'en  he  come  ofFerin'  help.  But  he  's  a-comin'  ter 
the  funeral.  She  won't  see  him,  though.  She  '11  be  all 
wrapped  in  her  sorrow  an'  my  old  veil.  But  he  '11  stan' 
straight  as  an  arrer  at  the  foot  of  the  grave.  He  '11  do 
his  hull  duty  jes'  's  ef  he  was  her  marri'd  husban'. 
You  see.  It  '11  be  a  year  o'  Sundays,  though,  before 
he 's  that,  'ith  Thirzy  feelin'  her  mother's  words  about 
him  was  a  special  reverlation." 

It  was  quite  as  Miss  Mahala  said.  Thirzy  lived 
alone  in  her  little  nest.  If  she  saw  the  sunlight  flick- 
ering over  Jo  coming  down  the  cart  path,  her  doors 
and  windows  were  closed  and  locked.  Although  at 
night  he  hoed  her  tiny  garden,  she  took  no  notice  of 
it.  Although  by  and  by  he  dug  her  potatoes  and  left 
them  in  the  cellar,  and  gathered  her  squashes  and 
heaped  them  in  the  shed,  and  picked  her  apples  and 
put  them  in  the  next  bin  to  the  potatoes,  she  still 
took  no  notice  of  it.  The  winter  snows  came  on,  and 
her  paths  were  made,  and  the  logs  in  the  wood-house 
split,  and  the  water  left  to  freeze  on  her  doorstone ; 
her  face  never  shone  on  him  with  a  word  of  thanks 
or  of  forbidding.  When  April  and  May  came  again, 


44  The  Elder's  People 

the  little  garden  was  made,  as  a  worshiper  might 
offer  at  the  shrine  of  an  unseen  deity.  Sometimes  in 
the  long  summer  days  he  surprised  her  in  her  sun- 
bonnet,  hastening  through  the  woods  on  some  errand; 
but  she  flitted  past  and  away  like  a  moth.  And  some- 
times in  the  nights  he  came  and  stood  where  he  could 
half  divine  her  sitting  in  the  dark  at  her  open  win- 
dow, as  if  she  were  a  part  of  the  starbeams  and  the 
soft  night  fragrances.  He  knew  just  how  she  looked 
—  frail  and  fair,  like  the  spirit  of  a  flower,  although 
he  never  put  it  into  words.  And  he  knew  that  as  she 
sat  there  in  the  dark  all  her  love  was  going  out  to 
him  as  his  went  up  to  her,  —  only  the  hand  of  her 
mother  like  a  terrible  mortmain  was  thrust  between 
them. 

It  was  clear  autumn  weather  when  Thirzy  left  off 
going  to  meeting.  She  could  not  sit  there  blushing 
and  paling  and  growing  faint  under  Jo's  eyes. 

"Dear  me,''  said  the  Elder,  "I  must  put  an  end 
to  this  some  way."  And  he  went  to  see  Thirzy. 

"  Well,  Thirzy,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  picking  at  the 
grapes  she  had  brought  him,  "  what  is  this  I  hear  ? 
That  Jo  Warner  considers  himself  engaged  to  marry 
you,  but  that  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  folks  are  allers  talkin',"  said  Thirzy. 

"  Don't  you  think  it 's  a  little  hard  on  Jo  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Thirzy,  in  a  transport,  "  Mis'  War- 
ner would  n't  let  Jo,  noway ! " 

"  That 's  quite  beside  the  question.  You  know, 


A  Change  of  Heart  45 

Thirzy,"  said  the  Elder,  tenderly,  "  I  've  known  you 
two  since  you  were  little  children.  I  Ve  watched 
you  and  loved  you  and  prayed  for  you.  I  \'e  seen 
you  grow  up,  pretty  as  a  white  rose.  I  Ve  seen  Jo 
finish  off  his  father's  house  in  the  hope  of  having  you 
in  it,  seen  him  work  his  farm  and  your  garden,  too, 
—  a  first-rate  fellow  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  he  is !  ''  cried  Thirzy,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"Then  what  I  want  to  know  is  why  you  treat 
Jo  so  ?  "  And  the  Elder  gazed  at  her  as  if  he  had  a 
right  to  ask. 

"I  promised  mother  — "  faltered  Thirzy. 

"  You  promised  your  mother  —  ?  " 

"To  send  Jo  off.  And  I  did." 

"  Why  was  that  ?  Why  did  your  mother  object 
to  Jo  ? '' 

"She  did  n't.  Pertikerlily.  She — she  hated  Mis' 
Warner." 

"  She  hated  Mrs.  W^amer  ?  "  said  the  Elder,  paus- 
ing, with  his  grape  suspended.  "Do  you  suppose 
your  mother  has  gone  to  heaven,  Thirzy  ?  " 

"  Suppose  my  mother  has  gone  to  heaven  ?  "  cried 
Thirzy,  her  tears  sparkling.  "Of  course  she  has! 
Of  course  she  has,  the  dear  sufferin'  soul !  " 

"And  do  you  suppose  there  can  be  any  hatred  in 
heaven?  Your  mother  can't  be  in  heaven  if  she  is 
still  hating  old  Mrs.  Warner.  If  your  mother  is  in 
heaven  —  as  I'm  sure  I  hope  she  is — she  can't  be 


46  The  Elder's  People 

hating  anybody.  She  must  be  feeling  kindly  even  to 
Mrs.  Warner.  She  must  be  quite  willing  you  should 
marr>^  Jo,  if  that  is  for  your  best  happiness  and  his." 

This  was  a  new  view  of  the  case.  Thirzy  looked 
up  and  far  away,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  penetrate 
the  confines  of  the  unknown.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
by  obeying  her  mother  she  were  keeping  her  out  of 
heaven.  ''  But  a  promise  is  a  promise,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  Your  mother  can't  be  in  heaven  and  wish  you 
to  keep  it,"  said  the  Elder.  "  You  made  it  while  she 
was  here,  supposing  she  was  to  remain  here.  Cir- 
cumstances alter  cases."  And  he  thought  that  if  this 
were  sophistry,  he  must  risk  its  being  of  a  pardon- 
able kind.  "  As  it  is,"  he  said,  "  you  are  wearing 
Jo  out.  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  take  this  bunch  of  grapes 
home  to  Mrs.  Perry,"  he  added,  after  a  little. 
"  They  're  some  sweeter  than  ours." 

''  Oh,  take  them  all !  "  cried  Thirzy. 

"No,"  said  the  Elder.  "They  only  brought  one 
bunch  out  of  Eschol ;  and  this  is  all  /  want  to  carry. 
Now  simply  think  of  this :  if  your  mother  is  where 
abiding  love  is,  you  and  Jo  are  all  right." 

"  B'en  to  Thirzy's  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mahala,  meet- 
ing the  Elder  on  his  way  home.  "  I  'm  jes'  come 
from  Mis'  Warner's.  Does  seem  cur'us  she  hain't 
be'n  knowin'  to  Jo's  carryin's-on.  Folks  don't  go 
there  much;  she  's  so  crabbit ;  an'  would  n't  darstto 
tell  her  if  they  did ;  an'  she 's  hed  the  rheumaticks 


A  Change  of  Heart  47 

an'  ain't  be'n  out.  I  've  bed  'em  myself  some.  But 
you  sorter  expec'  things,  my  age.  Yes,  she  's  jes' 
ketched  on.  She  '11  make  it  warm  fer  Jo.  And  ef 
ever  there  was  a  boy  worked  fer  his  mother  double- 
jointed,  's  you  may  say,  an'  waited  on  her  es  ef  he 
was  a  gel,  it's  him." 

"  She  's  fond  of  Jo,  is  n't  she  ?  "  asked  the  Elder, 
looking  for  a  big  red  leaf  to  hold  his  grapes. 

"  Fond  of  him  ?   He  's  the  apple  of  her  eye  !  " 

"  I  should  think  she  'd  want  him  to  be  happy, 
then." 

"  She  wants  him  to  be  happy  her  way.  An'  she  's 
sot  as  Mount  Pisghy.  Leaves  hev  turned  reel  pretty 
this  fall.  Mis'  Perry  well  ?  " 

It  was  a  peaceful  autumn  afternoon,  the  pale  sky 
lost  in  soft  hazes  near  the  horizon,  a  hesitating  wind 
sighing  now  and  then  and  bringing  the  spicy  smell 
of  the  ripe  apples.  But  there  was  no  peace  in  Mrs. 
Warner's  house  or  in  her  heart.  "  To  think  how 
I  've  slaved  fer  that  boy,  a-fetchin'  of  him  up,  an' 
this  is  the  eend  on  't ! "  she  was  muttering,  as  she 
took  the  loaves  from  the  big  oven.  "  Mos'  murders 
me  to  handle  'em.  Myra  Means 's  gel !  Oh,  good 
Lord  above  !  I  can't  stand  that !  "  And  tears  poured 
over  the  brown  hands. 

"  Why,  what 's  thisj  "  exclaimed  Jo,  coming  in. 

"  Nothin',  oh,  nothin'  excep'  thet  I  'm  all  beat 
out.  That  Means  gel !  "  she  cried  then,  her  tears 
vanishing  like  dew.  "  That  Means  gel !  " 


48  The  Elder's  People 

"  What  of  her  ?  "  asked  Jo  haltingly. 

"I  suspicioned  it  oncet.  An'  then  I  guessed  't 
warn't  so,  an'  let  it  be.  An'  now  you're  a-goin* 
'ith  her  reg'lar.  You  can't  say  you  ain't !  " 

"  What  if  I  be  ?  "  said  Jo. 

"  With  that  gel  of  Myra  Means's  ?  Why,  it  drives 
me  wild  to  think  on 't.  Myra  done  me  the  deadly 
wrong  of  my  life.  I  don't  forgive  her  ef  't  was  afore 
the  jedgment  seat !  Ain't  there  any  other  gels  round- 
about that  you  must  hev  —  " 

"  You  need  n't  to  worry,  mother,"  said  Jo  quietly. 
"  Thirzy  won't  have  me." 

"  Won't  hev  ye  ?  "  she  screamed,  her  gray  hair 
falling  round  her  brown  face  in  witch-locks  with 
her  agitation.  "  Thirzy  Means  won't  hev  ye  t  Won't 
hev  my  Jo  ?  "  And  she  was  silent  a  moment  be- 
cause words  failed  her.  "Ef  that  ain't  high  time  o' 
day !  "  she  said  presently,  in  a  subdued  tone.  And 
then,  after  another  moment's  silence :  "  I  'm  glad 
on 't.  It  puts  an  eend  to  that  worsted." 

"Mother,"  said  Jo,  looking  over  his  mother's 
head  and  out  the  window  into  the  far  forest, 
"I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart  an'  soul." 

"  An'  where  do  I  come  in  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  You  don't  come  in  at  all.  You  're  there  —  where 
you  allers  was.  There 's  two  sides  to  a  man's  feel- 
in's ;  one  ter  love  his  mother  with,  an'  one  ter  love 
his  wife.  But  she  won't  be  my  wife,"  he  said,  with 
a  stifled  intonation  of  love  and  grief. 


A  C/iange  of  Heart  49 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Warner.  "  I  dare  say 
she 's  pretty.  I  know  she  is.  But  she 's  proberly  slack. 
An*  ef  she's  like  her  mother  —  " 

"  She  is  n't.  She 's  her  father  all  over,  folks  ses." 

"  Oh,  my,  oh,  my,  oh,  my !  "  cried  Mrs.  War- 
ner, sinking  into  her  low  chair  that  Jo  had  made 
from  a  barrel,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  and  wring- 
ing her  hands,  partly  with  the  woe  of  old  memory, 
partly  with  present  trouble.  "  An'  to  think  I  should 
live  till  this !  My  boy  I  've  worked  fer,  an'  lived 
fer,  an'  ter  look  at  him  was  meat  an'  drink  —  an' 
now  to  give  him  up,  an'  to  her !  You  've  broke  my 
heart,  you  've  broke  my  heart !  " 

He  had  never  seen  his  mother  like  this.  It  seemed 
a  convulsion  of  nature.  He  laid  his  hand  heavily  on 
her  shoulder.  "  You  need  n't  take  on  so,  mother," 
he  said.  "  I  won't  go  near  Thirzy  ag'in  ef  it 's  goin' 
ter  try  you  so." 

The  familiar  kitchen,  with  its  rows  of  pewter,  its 
strings  of  onions  over  the  shelf,  the  iron  candlesticks 
and  tray  and  snuffers  there,  its  great  dinner  horn 
and  the  big  brass  warming-pan,  his  mother's  chair 
beside  the  blazing  hearth  where  the  crane  swung 
with  its  kettle  —  all  seemed  black  with  trouble, 
seemed  prisonlike  and  unendurable.  He  went  out 
and  sat  down  in  the  porch  he  had  built  with  so  much 
love  and  hope  in  his  heart,  and  to  climb  over  which 
he  had  brought  the  wild  sweetbrier  out  of  the  woods. 
The  leaves  had  fallen;  but  a  pungent  smell  seemed 


50  The  Elder's  People  ] 

to  linger  round  it  yet,  and  remind  him  of  the  night 
with  Thirzy  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  now  so  long, 
so  long  ago.  It  was  all  over,  then.  He  had  not 
abandoned  hope  before.  This  was  the  end  of  his 
work,  of  his  love,  of  the  joy  of  his  life. 

"  He 's  took  it  quiet,'^  thought  his  mother,  looking 
sidelong  through  the  window.  "  But  then,  that 's  his 
way.  I  do  know.  Folks  gits  over  things — 'specially 
puppy-love.  I  '11  whip  him  up  a  good  supper.  Oh !  " 
she  cried  then  suddenly,  striking  her  face  with  her 
open  hands,  "  I  don't  believe  but  what  I  'm  a  wicked 


woman ! " 


It  was  some  weeks  after  this  that  Mrs.  Perry  and 
the  Elder  sat  singing  their  psalms  together  by  the 
firelight,  the  children  being  in  bed,  and  their  stock- 
ings hanging  from  the  shelf. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  Jo  Warner  looks,"  said 
Mrs.  Perry,  breaking  off  in  "  Hark !  what  mean 
those  heavenly  voices  ?  "  and  putting  the  coals  to- 
gether. He 's  what  Miss  Mahaly  calls  peekid.  I  'm 
afraid  he 's  sickening  for  something.  He  was  n't  at 
meeting  yesterday." 

"Nor  last  Sabbath,  either,"  replied  the  Elder. 
"  I  'm  pretty  busy ;  but  I  '11  step  over  there  to-mor- 
row if  the  snow  ain't  too  deep.  And  if  it  is."  And 
he  rose  to  draw  aside  the  red  moreen  curtain  and 
look  out  at  the  snow  whirling  past  the  window's 
lane  of  light.  "  There 's  something  very  sweet  to  me 
in  the  seclusion  of  a  great  storm.  It  shuts  me  in  with 


A  Change  of  Heart  51 

my  happiness  —  my  wife,  my  children,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  like  to  set  a  light  in  the  window  for  way- 
farers, too.  Yes,  I  '11  step  over  to-morrow." 

And  stepping  over,  the  great  hemlocks  lifting  their 
boughs  and  shaking  down  showers  of  silvery  spray 
about  him,  here  and  there  a  white  birch  bowed  with 
its  weight  of  snow  and  lying  on  the  way  prostrate  as 
a  sheeted  penitent,  a  flight  of  birds  rising  from  the 
cedar  swamp,  and  from  the  seed  vessels  thrust  through 
the  snow,  a  fox  with  his  long  brush  skimming  by, 
he  felt  the  winter  world  so  full  of  life  and  joy  that 
he  could  hardly  believe  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
trouble,  till  he  found  Jo  burning  up  with  fever, 
and  his  mother  hovering  over  him  like  an  animated 
flame. 

"  Oh,  it 's  bad  !  "  she  whispered  hoarsely,  as  the 
Elder  stamped  the  snow  off"  his  boots.  "  Don't  make 
a  noise!  I  dassent  hardly  breathe.  I  ain't  slep'  for 
seven  nights.  Feel  as  if  I  hed  n't  no  top  ter  my  hed. 
He 's  awfle  low.  He 's  out'n  his  head.  He  don't  say 
nothin'  but  *  Thirzy,  Thirzy,'  from  daylight  to  dark. 
Ain't  mentioned  my  name  oncet  —  me,  that  bore 
him !  The  doctor  ses  —  oh,  he 's  got  a  reel  good  con- 
stertution  —  don't  you  b'lieve  mebbe  he  '11  pull  thru, 
Elder  Perrj^  ?  "  she  implored,  catching  at  the  Elder's 
sleeve  and  peering  into  his  face  with  her  tired  eyes. 
'  Hev  I  gotter  lose  him,  too,  —  my  son,  my  grown 
son  ?  I  can't  a-bear  it,  I  can't  a-bear  it !  He  must 
live !  "  —  pouring  out  her  torrent  of  words  under  her 


52  The  Elder* s  People 

breath,  the  fire  in  her  seeming  to  burn  up  her  tears 
as  soon  as  they  started.  "  Oh !  I  give  up !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "He  was  all  mine  oncet.  But  I  give  up. 
Kneel  down,  Elder,  kneel  down,  I  say,  an'  pray ! " 
she  whispered,  fiercely.  "  Pray  for  all  you  're  worth 
that  my  boy  shell  live.  Say  my  heart 's  melted.  Say 
it 's  broke.  I  've  be'n  wicked.  I  'd  orter  hev  my 
punishment  —  but  I  can't  take  it,  I  can't !  Ter  hev 
him  took !  Oh,  yes,  I  give  up.  Somebody  go  fisr 
Thirzy.  I  '11  take  her  right  in.  I  '11  do  my  best.  Oh 
my  little  boy ,  my  boy ! "  She  wept,  careless  who  saw 
the  contortion  of  her  face. 

There  came,  as  she  was  speaking,  a  rap  at  the 
door,  timid  at  first,  then  bold.  The  door  was  thrown 
open,  letting  in  a  burst  of  red  sunset,  and  Thirzy  ran 
and  threw  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Warner's  neck. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  never  spoke  to  you  in  my  life.  Mis' 
Warner,"  she  cried.  "  But  you  fergive  me  fer  bein' 
me,  won't  you  ?  Both  on  us  love  him  so !  I'll  be  a 
reel  good  child  ter  you  —  " 

"You  '11  be  an  angel  of  the  Lord  ef  your  comin' 
cures  my  boy !  You  '11  be  my  own  little  darter,  as 
you  'd  orter  be'n ! "  said  Mrs.  Warner,  forgetting  to 
whisper.  "Oh,  my  heart,  I  seen  him  thru  the  door; 
I  seen  him  smile !  There  ain't  no  mistake.  I  du  b'lieve 
he 's  a-comin'  ter  his  senses.  The  doctor  said  he  might 
—  hejes'  might  —  by  sundown,  ef  I  kep'  the  ice  to 
his  head,  an'  I  kep'  it,  tel  he  dozed  inter  this  sleep 
that 's  deep  as  if  he  was  in  a  fur  country.  Stand  oif 


A  Change  of  Heart  53 

an'  let  me  look  at  ye,  ye  child  of  John  Means !  You  're 
proper  pretty  —  " 

"  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Warner,  you  're  making 
Thirzy  blush." 

"  Wal,  I  'm  plumb  pleased !  IVIy  poor  Jo !  You 
marry  'em  now, Elder,  whilst  you're  here,  an'  we'll 
ketch  holt  an'  nuss  him  tergether,  Thirzy  an'  me  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mrs.  Warner  —  " 

"  Elder !  Ever  sense  you  come,  an'  we  begun  ter 
keep  Christmus,  I  gin  Jo  a  bunch  o'  raisins  an'  a 
orange,  an'  he  gin  me  the  '  Farmer's  Almanack.'  But 
this  new  darter  o'  mine  '11  be  a  present  all  the  year 
roun'  fer  both  on  us.  I  feel  to  be  grateful !  "  She  be- 
gan to  bustle  about  like  a  little  brown  whirlwind. 
"I'll  jes'  give  him  his  drops,"  she  said.  She  came 
back  beaming  in  a  few  moments.  "He's  better 
a'ready,"  she  whispered,  loudly.  "Fever's  cooled. 
He  knowed  me.  He  looked  up  and  smiled  an'  said 
'Mother.'  Come  Thirzy — come.  Elder!" 

"  But,  Mrs.  Warner,  my  dear  woman,  is  n't  this 
• —  is  n't  it  rather  sudden  ?  " 

"  Lord  o'  love !  A  change  o'  heart  ushully  comes 
sudding,  don't  it.  Elder  ?  " 


A  RURAL  TELEPHONE 


in 

A  Rural  Telephone 

THE  great  clock  ticked  with  loud  insistence  in 
the  immaculate  room.  Things  had  to  be  im- 
maculate where  Mrs.  Dacre  was.  The  sunlight  sift- 
ing through  bare  branches  gilded  the  brown  shadows 
of  the  walls  ceiled  in  old  pine,  and  now  the  color 
of  the  dead  leaves  whirling  without.  The  bed  was 
of  snowy  whiteness,  and  the  old  woman  propped  on 
her  pillows  was  whiter  yet. 

"There,  mother  dear,"  said  Nancy.  "It's  all 
apple-pie.  An'  I  '11  go  to  work.  There 's  consider'ble 
i'nin'  to  do  out  there.  But  if  any  one  comes  in, 
you  're  as  neat  as  a  pin  an'  as  pretty  as  a  pink." 

"  My !  There 's  no  need  of  any  one's  comin'  in, 
sence  we  got  the  'phone.  Jes'  give  it  here,  Nancy, 
an'  I  'm  content." 

The  telephone  was  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  It  was 
a  recent  acquisition  in  the  little  community,  and  re- 
garded as  a  delightful  toy  with  which  one  could  not 
play  too  much. 

The  daughter  took  down  the  receiver  and  laid  it 
on  the  pillow  by  her  mother's  ear.  "  I  s'pose  it 's  all 
right,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  as  she  had  said  before. 

"  Of  course  it  is  !  "  was  the  swift  reply.  "  If  any 
one  finds  fault  with  a  bedridden  old  woman  fer  tr}'in' 


58  TJie  Elder* s  People 

to  keep  along  with  the  world,  they  can !  Why,  the 
satusfaction  I  Ve  had  out  o'  this  sence  we  put  it  in 
passes  all  I  could  git  out  o'  sewin' -circle  an'  perrish 
meetin'  put  together ! " 

"  I  don't  believe  any  one  cares  if  you  do  use  it," 
Nancy  said,  comforting  her  conscience. 

"  Only  old  Mis'  Monroe.  An'  she  ses  to  Mis' 
Plumer  —  I  heem  her  myself — '  I  can't  talk  any 
more  now,'  ses  she.  '  Old  Mis'  Dacre  's  listenin',' 
ses  she.   *  I  ain't,  either  ! '  ses  I,  real  sharp." 

"Why,  mother!" 

"  Well,  I  wa'n't.  I  had  the  handle  down,  because 
I  can't  Stan'  the  ringin'  clost  to  my  ear,  it 's  so  sud- 
ding.  An',  too,  I  wanted  to  hear  if  Ann  Mari' 
Speer  'd  sold  her  chickings  fer  enough  to  buy  her 
plum-color  dress.  It  '11  set  off  her  skin  lovely.  Why 
should  n't  I  ?  Ann  Mari'  'd  tell  me  herself.  Fact  is, 
Nancy,  it 's  like  a  continnered  story  in  the  papers. 
I  'm  reely  curus  to  know  if  Almedy  Bent 's  goin'  to 
cut  her  skirt  bell-shape  or  gored.  Gored  'd  fit  her 
figger  best.  This  piller  ain't  jes' right,  Nancy.  There 
—  that  's  it.  Deacon  Morse  was  callin'  up  Mis' 
Morse — he  was  to  West  Centre.  Didn't  git  her, 
fust  call.  Seems  he  could  n't  raise  but  a  dollar  an'  a 
half  for  his  apples,  an'  won't  sell.  So  I  guess  we  'd 
better  keep  our'n  for  one  seventy-five.  If  some  spile, 
they  '11  more  'n  everage  up." 

"  The  ground  was  covered  with  a  hoar  frost  this 
momin'  —  it  looked  beautiful  on  the  brown  grass." 


A  Rural  Telephone  59 

"  Means  a  thaw.  Have  the  suller  winders  opened 
then.  When  Danny  comes  round  would  n't  you  bet- 
ter send  a  basketlul  to  Mis'  Ruggles  t  Them  won't 
spile.  I  never  could  see  why  everjbody  don't  hev  an 
apple  tree  as  much  as  a  back  door.  They  're  motherly 
creeturs  with  their  broodin'  boughs.  It  makes  me 
feel  dretful  bad  to  think  of  Johnny  runnin'  off  to  sea 
an'  forsakin'  Ann  Mari'.  It's  mos'  broke  Mis' 
Ruggles  down.  Don't  you  fergit  about  sendin'  the 
apples,  Nancy.  I  declare  to  man,  I  do'  know  w'at 
we  done  afore  we  hed  the  rural  telephone.  It 's  bet- 
ter 'n  rural  free  delivery ;  for  that  comes  now  an' 
then,  but  this  comes  all  the  time.  I  useter  lie  here 
like  a  dead  tree  —  nothin'  stirrin'  but  the  pend'lum 
of  the  clock  tickin'  off  my  days  like  a  sentence  o' 
death.  An'  now  I  'm  all  alive  an'  full  o'  the  life  of 
folks.  I  don't  need  to  see  'em  the  way  I  did  when 
the  days  was  so  long.  An'  w'en  they  do  come  in 
I  've  got  lots  to  tell  'em.  Now  the  days  ain't  long 
enough." 

There  was  a  whir,  sudden  as  the  challenge  of  a 
rattlesnake,  and  the  receiver  was  at  Mrs.  Dacre's 
ear.  "  Tut,  tut !  "  she  said.  "  It 's  only  Mis'  Mon- 
roe a-tellin'  Mamy  to  wear  her  rubbers.  Them  sort 
o'  no-account  messages  make  me  disappointed  as  I  be 
when  I  'm  readin'  the  paper  if  there  ain't  anybody  I 
know  in  the  deaths  an'  marriages.  There  !  you  won  t 
never  git  to  your  work.  I  'm  reel  comFable.  Com- 
Fable  as  I  can  be,  I  calkerlate.  It   does   seem  one 


60  The  Elder's  People 

o'  the  mysteries,  when  I  useter  be  head  of  everythin' 
here,  that  I  can't  set  foot  to  the  floor  —  " 

"  P'r'aps  you  could,  mother  dear,  if  you  tried." 

"  Nancy !  You  go  right  about  your  work !  If 
that 's  all  the  symperthy  I  git  —  " 

And  Nancy  laughed  and  kissed  her  mother  and 
was  gone. 

"Oh,  you  pretty  flower!"  said  Mrs.  Dacre  — 
when  the  door  was  closed. 

But  what  she  had  said  was  quite  true ;  Mrs.  Dacre 
had  a  native  desire  to  rule  which  made  it  impossible 
for  her  not  to  meddle.  She  was  never  too  tired  to 
wake  in  the  night  and  walk  a  couple  of  miles  to  a 
sick-bed.  Few  were  born  in  the  place  without  her 
help ;  few  died  that  she  did  not  close  their  eyes.  She 
had  sprung  from  slippery  stone  to  slippery  stone, 
crossing  the  brook,  the  ice  breaking  up ;  she  had 
gone  through  the  hills  in  driving  snow  where  many 
a  shepherd  lost  the  way;  and  the  summer  lightnings 
never  held  her  back  on  her  errands  of  mercy.  She  could 
hardly  have  told  you  if  they  were  errands  of  mercy 
or  of  desire  to  be  a  part  of  all  that  was  going  on. 
She  was  the  confidante  of  the  village  ,*  they  reported 
to  hei",  consulted  her,  came  to  her  in  trouble ;  her 
curiosity  conquered,  her  vivacity  cheered ;  her  love 
of  ruling  gave  support. 

Of  course  all  this  had  been  a  strain  on  strength 
and  nerve,  although  she  had  plenty  of  both.  "  I  'm 
mos'  beat  out,"  she  used  to  say.   "  Troubles  always 


A  Rural  Telephone  61 

come  when  you  least  expect  them  most."  But  she 
would  not  abate  her  activities ;  they  had  become  a 
habit  with  cravings  like  those  of  an  opium-eater. 

And  then  came  Nancy's  love-affair,  and  her  wild 
objection  to  it,  and  Nancy's  quiet  persistence ;  and 
in  a  passion  of  angr)^  excitement  she  had  taken  to  her 
bed  and  had  remained  there  ever  since.  The  tele- 
phone then  had  become  a  mild  substitute  for  her 
drug. 

That  Saul  Manners,  one  of  the  Black  Mannerses, 
should  dare  lift  his  eyes  to  her  Nancy  —  her  white, 
delicate  Nancy !  He,  a  Manners  of  the  Hollow,  a 
race  always  shiftless,  always  thriftless,  sometimes 
beggars,  maybe  worse !  To  be  sure,  a  wife  from 
far  away  had  once  come  there,  a  proud,  defiant  crea- 
ture —  Saul  had  her  burning  black  eyes  —  but  she 
had  faded  out  of  light  and  life  and  left  her  boy 
among  them.  Mrs.  Dacre  never  forgot  the  illumina- 
tion that  kindled  in  those  eyes  of  hers  at  the  mo- 
ment she  understood  there  was  only  an  hour  or  two 
more  to  live  and  the  opening  gates  showed  her  the 
way  to  freedom.  And  Nancy !  It  was  making  the 
nest  of  a  silver  dove  out  of  the  common  mud.  The 
Dacres  were  poor,  perhaps,  land-poor  still ;  but  they 
were  the  old  settlers,  the  first  proprietors,  the  aristo- 
crats of  the  region.  They  had  always  held  their 
heads  high.  And  now  to  have  him  — 

"Why,  when  he  was  a  boy  he  useter  come  fer 
our  skim-milk !  "  she  cried. 


62  The  Elder's  People 

"He  don't  now,"  said  Nancy.  "And  all  them 
are  dead  and  gone.  And  he  's  sold  the  Hollow,  an' 
got  a  place  on  the  hill,  an'  paid  for  it,  an'  don't 
scant  on  any  thin'." 

"  Reg'lar  driver.  But  he  ain't  a-goin'  to  drive 
my  Nancy  to  her  death." 

"  Mother!  He  loves  me!  " 

"  Calf-love,"  said  the  old  woman,  wrathfully  ad- 
justing the  pillows  herself.  "  He  '11  love  a  good 
many  gels  yet." 

"  Never,  never,  mother !  An'  you  '11  break  his 
heart,  an'  mine  too." 

"  I  ain't  no  symperthy  for  these  early  loves  an' 
heart-breaks.  As  if  there  wa'n't  nothin'  else  in  the 
world  but  keepin'  company  !  Your  heart  ain't  so 
brittle.  He  loves  himself.  That 's  who !  And  it  'd 
be  a  great  lift  to  him  to  git  into  our  fam'bly.  He 
'ith  his  brother  Steve  a-trompin'  the  road !  My 
brick  's  gitting  cold,  Nancy.  My  feet  are  like  the 
clods  of  the  valley.  Marry !  How  can  you  marry 
anybody,  'ith  me  on  your  ban's!  " 

"  He  'd  help.  He  'd  be  a  reel  son  to  you," 
sobbed  Nancy,  as  she  bent  to  find  the  brick. 

"  I  've  got  a  daughter.  I  don't  want  no  sons  of 
the  Manners  sort  —  always  nine  o'clock  with  them 
till  it 's  ten !  And  I  ain't  one  o'  them  that  whiffles 
about,  Nancy.  I  ain't  willin'  to  have  him  come  in 
here  an'  master  me,  an*  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  took  care 
of  in  any  house  o'  his'n.  An'  there  it  is!  "  And  the 


A  Rural  TelepJwne  63 

paler  and  thinner  and  sadder  Nancy  looked,  as  she 
went  about  her  tasks,  the  fiercer  the  old  woman  grew 
with  the  sense  of  her  responsibility  for  it.  But  that 
her  child  should  condescend  from  the  high  estate  of  a 
Dacre  to  that  of  the  Black  Manners,  the  low-browed, 
beggarly  crew  —  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of ! 

"  It 's  no  use,  Saul,"  said  Nancy,  when  her  lover 
came  to  the  foot  of  the  garden,  one  night  of  the  last 
spring.  "  I  can't  leave  mother." 

'' I  don't  ask  you  to  leave  her!  Dear,  my  dear, 
I  'd  make  her  more  comfortable  than  she  ever 
dreamed." 

Nancy  was  crj^ing  softly,  hiding  her  face  in  his 


arm 


There,  there!  "  he  said,  as  one  might  soothe  a 
child,  and  laying  his  face  on  her  soft  hair.  "  We  're 
better  off  than  some,  for  we  've  got  each  other.  If 
we  never  marry,  I  '11  be  faithful  to  you,  Nancy,  till 
the  day  I  die  an'  after." 

"  Oh,  oh,  I  don't  want  to  keep  you  bound,  an' 
cut  off  from  a  home  an'  —  an'  all !  " 

"  I  am  bound  !  There  's  nothin'  in  the  world  can 
undo  that.  I  'm  yours,  single  or  married,  an'  into 
the  other  life.  An'  if  there 's  no  marrjdn'  nor  givin' 
in  marriage  there,  there's  no  divorcin',  neither!  " 

The  freshness  of  upturned  furrows  came  on  the 
breath  of  the  south  wind  blowing  up  rain,  and  the 
fragrance  of  the  apple  blossoms  streamed  round 
them  in  long  wafts  as  they  stood  there  hidden  by  the 


64  The  Elder's  People 

mists  of  the  kindly  night ;  and  full  of  the  invincible 
spirit  of  youth  that  feels  its  immortality,  the  earth 
was  beautiful  and  life  was  sweet  even  in  their  trou- 
ble. To-morrow — well,  to-morrow  the  roses  might 
be  in  bloom.  And  Nancy  stayed  half  happy  in  the 
thought  of  her  lover,  and  trusting  to  time  for  her 
mother,  a  shade  of  sadness  clouding  the  happiness 
and  giving  her  a  pathetic  sweetness  that  moved  the 
heart  of  every  one  but  her  mother  —  her  mother 
who  adored  her,  but  would  not  have  let  her  know  it 
for  anything  under  heaven. 

But  indeed  all  the  village  regarded  the  girl  ten- 
derly. Lally  James  wanted  her  father,  when  he 
bought  her  a  new  print,  to  buy  another  for  Nancy. 
Mrs.  Somers  told  her  mother  that  if  anything  hap- 
pened to  her  she  would  take  Nancy  for  her  own. 

"  There  's  nothin'  goin'  to  happen,"  said  Mrs. 
Dacre,  with  sublime  confidence. 

The  child  took  every  one's  affection  for  granted ; 
a  rosy,  darling  thing,  her  head  sunning  over  with 
curls,  her  smile  always  kindling,  her  pretty  pouting 
kisses  always  ready.  Every  little  while  she  went  the 
tour  of  the  village.  "  I  'm  glad  I  come  to  dinner 
here,"  she  said,  where  pork  and  greens  made  the 
feast.  "  I  sorrow  for  you,"  she  said,  where  some 
illness  was.  "  Ev'ybody  wuvs  me  ve'y  much,  and  I 
wuv  ev'ybody,"  she  declared  elsewhere.  And  every- 
body did;  from  the  time  she  took  off  her  own  shoes 
to  give  them  to  a  child  who  had  none,  till  long  after 


A  Rural  Telephone  65 

she  had  turned  up  her  lovely  locks,  everybody  felt  an 
ownership  in  her  and  her  affections. 

"  I  can't  think  why  people  are  so  good  to  me," 
Nancy  once  said. 

"  Why  should  n't  they  be  ? "  said  her  mother. 
''  Ain't  you  John  Dacre's  daughter  ?  " 

John  Dacre's  daughter !  Although  Nancy  felt  her 
mother  a  part  of  the  walls  of  the  world,  it  was  her 
father,  in  his  always  subdued  and  quiet  mood, 
toward  whom  her  heart  yearned. 

But  this  willful  old  woman  had  not  always  been 
a  Dacre  herself,  although  she  had  so  completely 
identified  herself  with  her  husband's  family  that  she 
had  half  forgotten  the  fact.  There  was  a  time  when 
she  was  a  much  humbler  person,  a  handsome,  spir- 
ited girl  who  earned  her  bread  with  carding  and 
spinning  from  house  to  house.  Strange  to  say,  every 
one  else  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that,  too,  with 
such  force  and  assurance  had  she  taken  hold  of  life 
when  she  became  John  Dacre's  wife.  And  John 
Dacre  had  not  been  the  only  man  who  cared  for 
her.  There  had  been  a  dark  and  reckless  young 
scamp  who  had  made  her  feel  his  power.  She  had 
seen  him  shoot  the  bird  on  the  wing,  she  had  seen 
him  breaking  his  great  white  horse,  she  had  seen 
him  diving  in  the  lake  for  a  drowning  man  —  alas! 
his  name  was  Manners.  He  overtook  her  when  her 
work  was  done,  and  went  along  with  her;  he  met  her 
by  the  brook,  and  skipped  pebbles  there;  he  leaned 


66  The  Elder's  People 

over  the  bridge  with  her,  and  each  was  to  the  other 
a  part  of  the  magical  beauty  when  twilight  veils  the 
day  and  the  stars  tremble  out.  He  followed  her  up  on 
the  high  pastures  knee-deep  in  the  spicy  sweet-fern 
and  bayberry,  and  into  the  green  shadows  of  the  wood. 
Once,  through  a  gap  of  crowding  trees  she  saw  the 
red  flame  of  the  sunset  repeated  and  flashing  in 
Aleck  Manners's  eyes;  and  once,  that  once,  his 
arms  were  about  her,  and  his  lips  were  on  hers,  and 
in  that  moment  she  comprehended  all  the  sweetness, 
all  the  honeyed  richness,  of  life  —  and  in  the  next 
she  broke  away  and  ran;  she  had  half  plighted 
faith  with  John  Dacre,  and  John  Dacre  was  a  com- 
fortable man.  She  always  hated  the  sight  of  that 
wood;  she  closed  the  window  of  her  room  that 
commanded  it  and  the  sunset  glow  shining  through 
it,  and  set  the  head  of  her  bed  against  it.  For  years 
she  could  see  that  flame  burning  in  Aleck  Manners's 
eyes  whenever  she  shut  her  own.  But  in  time  she 
outgrew  it.  It  made  her  shudder  then  to  think  she 
might  have  been  one  of  those  miserable  Mannerses. 
But  love  seemed  to  be  burned  out  of  her  in  that  one 
fiery  moment.  She  was  a  good  wife;  she  took  faith- 
ful care  of  John  Dacre,  with  an  aggressive  loyalty, 
standing  somewhat  in  awe  of  the  silent  man;  but 
not  till  her  little  Nancy  came  did  she  ever  forget 
herself  in  another.  The  child  appeared  to  her  like  a 
wonderful  white  flower  blossoming  out  of  the  dead- 
ness  of  her  inner  life.  Her  child  and  John  Dacre's — 


^  Rural  Telephone  67 

she  was  a  miracle !  Her  innocence,  her  exquisite  infan- 
tile delicacy,  were  a  perpetual  marvel ;  the  universe 
had  come  to  its  perfection  in  Nancy.  When  she  saw 
the  wind  stirring  the  fine  fair  hair,  and  the  blue  eyes 
mirroring  heaven,  she  felt  this  was  the  top  of  beauty. 
In  her  long  cloak,  the  child  in  her  arms,  she  went 
into  the  green  woods  as  if  to  teach  her  the  spell  of 
weaving  branches;  she  dipped  her  in  the  brook,  and 
the  sparkle  of  the  waters  on  the  little  rosy  limbs 
seemed  the  radiance  of  some  young  angelic  creature ; 
you  would  have  met  her  down  any  lane  when  the 
wild  roses  were  in  bloom,  as  if  the  loveliness  of  the 
earth  were  her  darling's  only  fit  companion.  Then, 
living  in  the  child,  worshiping  her,  she  began  to 
love  the  children  of  others;  and  loving  the  chil- 
dren, their  fathers  and  mothers  grew  dear,  and  so 
presently  she  ruled  and  mastered  the  small  com- 
munity through  serving  them.  When  she  went  out 
at  night  to  watch  by  some  sick-bed,  the  child  was 
under  her  cloak,  cradled  by  and  by  on  a  pillow, 
there  as  if  she  were  part  of  the  healing  forces.  And 
in  the  bright  dawning  it  seemed  to  the  mother  as 
if  cure  lay  in  the  sight  of  that  sweet  countenance. 
Wars  crashed  over  the  land;  it  did  not  signify. 
The  great  elements  were  harnessed;  it  did  not  sig- 
nify. John  Dacre  died;  it  —  did  not  signify.  So 
long  as  there  was  Nancy  the  world  rolled  on  se- 
renely ;  there  was  need  of  nothing  else. 

Sometimes  in  those  old  wild  wood  ways  she  had 


68  The  Elder's  People 

met  Miss  Mahala,  then  a  strange,  dark  young  per- 
son who  looked  as  if  smothered  fires  were  burning 
her  to  the  ash  of  eld.  As  she  bent  over  the  child  the 
mother  felt  she  wrought  some  spell,  and  was  half 
afraid  till  a  smile  illumined  that  dark  face  like  a 
burst  of  sunshine  on  a  gloomy  landscape.  Perhaps 
the  remembrance  hindered  her  from  feeling  any 
rivalry  in  the  later  years.  But  by  the  time  Miss 
Mahala  entered  on  her  kingdom  Mrs.  Dacre's  ener- 
gies were  declining,  while  she  recognized  that  Miss 
Mahala  administered  affairs  in  their  larger  aspect. 

And  then  as  always  Nancy's  going  out  of  the 
house  sent  shadow  into  every  room;  sunshine  came 
with  her  returning.  The  hours  when  she  herself  was 
away  from  Nancy  seemed  time  lost  out  of  life ;  she 
looked  forward  to  being  at  home  with  her  again  as 
to  some  festival.  All  the  passion,  all  the  fire,  of  her 
powerful  nature  wrapped  the  child.  She  thought  — 
until  she  was  tried  —  that  she  would  have  given 
Nancy  her  heart's  blood.  She  had  a  certain  fierce 
protecting  instinct  of  the  wild  creature  for  its  whelp ; 
she  felt  that  she  could  never  die  while  Nancy  needed 
her.  She  wondered  what  the  child's  dreams  were 
about;  she  was  jealous  of  the  young  woman's 
thoughts  —  tranquil  thoughts  they  were,  for  Nancy 
was  a  Dacre.  When  Nancy  joined  the  church,  it 
seemed  unnecessary;  Nancy  had  been  bom  perfect. 
When  summer  days  were  long  and  fine,  they  seemed 
the  promise  of  long,  fine  life  to  Nancy ;  and  when 


A  Rural  Telephone  69 

great  winter  storms  were  raging,  the  mother  lay  in 
a  transport  of  content,  shut  in  with  her  sleeping 
Nancy. 

The  bitterness  of  it,  then,  when  from  this  depth 
of  satisfaction  she  woke  to  the  fact  that  Nancy  loved 
some  one  other  than  herself — and  that  other  a 
Manners!  In  a  day,  an  hour,  she  grew  old.  Her 
sins  had  found  her  out,  the  sin  of  the  world  had 
come  to  her  door  and  was  visited  on  her  head.  The 
blush  branded  her  face  so  that  its  stain  remained. 
The  son  of  Aleck  Manners  !  She  remembered  that 
man^s  love,  his  kiss,  as  a  crime  she  had  committed. 
That  his  son  should  love  Nancy  was  profanation,  was 
sacrilege !  Had  Nancy  been  overtaken  by  any  dan- 
gerous illness,  although  it  tore  her  heart,  she  would 
have  given  her  bitter  medicine.  She  must  have  bit- 
ter medicine  now. 

So,  Saul  being  forbidden  the  borders,  Mrs.  Dacre 
contrived  work  enough  for  Nancy  to  keep  her  hands 
and  her  thoughts  full  through  her  waking  hours. 
But  she  could  not  hinder  Nancy's  dreams  at  night, 
and  perhaps  it  was  their  sweetness  that  gave  her 
every  morning  the  soft  flush  on  her  cheek,  the  bright- 
ness of  the  beaming  eye,  the  tender  smile  about  the 
lips,  until  they  faded  into  the  light  of  common  day, 
and  the  patient  look  of  endurance  that  came  in  their 
place. 

"  You  ain't  eatin'  enough,  Nancy,"  her  mother 
said. 


70  The  Elder's  People 

"I  ain't  much  appetite." 

"That's  no  matter,"  said  the  indomitable  old 
spirit.  "  You  eat !  You  '11  git  the  good  of  it  whether 
you  want  it  or  not.  You  had  the  combs  fetched  in  ? 
Honey 's  fust-rate  for  you.  Who  took  'em  ?  You  ? " 

"  Saul  took  them,  mother." 

"  Did  you  pay  him  ? " 

"Pay  Saul!" 

"  That  honey  'd  orter  make  you  sick !  Oh,  me,  me, 
there  ain't  a  trouble  sharper  'n  an  ongrateful  child 
gives  ye  !  "  But  just  then  the  telephone  bell  tinkled, 
and  Mrs.  Dacre  surmounted  her  own  trouble  tem- 
porarily in  her  lively  interest  in  the  affairs  of  others. 
For  a  mill  having  been  built  on  the  rapids  behind 
the  Davison  Hill  a  telephone  wire  had  been  required. 
Mrs.  Dacre  was  one  of  the  first  to  take  advantage  of 
it;  but  Miss  Mahala  had  stoutly  refused  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  If  it  wasn't  the  work  of  evil 
spirits,  she  reasoned,  it  would  do  their  work  in 
bringing  the  outside  world  into  the  Settlement.  The 
Davisons  always  did  mischief,  she  said. 

It  was  late  that  afternoon  that  Mrs.  Ruggles  passed 
the  window  and  came  in.  She  had  a  branch  of  witch- 
hazel,  strung  with  its  threads  of  bloom,  in  her  hand. 
"  I  thought  I  'd  fetch  it  over,"  she  said,  "jest 's  token 
that  summer  ain't  all  gone.  I  mind  you  like  the 
nat'ral  thin's.  Somehow  I  feel  when  this  blows  that 
it 's  a  sign  the  Lord 's  lookin'  out  for  us  still,  as 
much  as  when  the  bow  was  set  in  heaven.  Ain't  that 


A  Rural  Telephone  71 

so,  Mis'  Dacre  ?  I  take  it  as  a  promise  o'  spring 
flowers." 

"  It  's  most  excellent  for  a  bruise,"  said  Mrs. 
Dacre.  "I  was  jes'  tellin'  Mis'  Bent  to  git  the  flow- 
ers an'  make  a  poultice  for  Tom's  hurt  —  " 

"  W'y,  I  did  n't  know  —  How  'd  you  hear  ? " 

"  They  'phoned  for  Dr.  Bly.  But  he  'd  gone  down 
to  Salt  Water.  So  I  told  her  what  to  do.  She  was 
obleeged  an'  thankful." 

Mrs.  Ruggles  was  a  colorless  little  woman,  who 
would  have  looked  hardly  more  than  the  shadow  of 
some  one  else  if  a  black  eye  had  not  animated  the 
ashes  like  a  coal  of  fire  and  given  her  life  and  per- 
sonality. She  fidgeted  now,  took  another  chair,  raised 
the  window-shade,  and  tied  its  cord  and  tassel  again. 
''You  'phoned?"  she  said.  "Mis'  Dacre,  I  'm  half 
a  mind  to  tell  you  sunthin'." 

'  Make  it  a  whole  one,  Phoebe.  I  knowed  you  hed 
sunthin'  on  your  mind.  'T  ain't  nat'ral  for  you  to 
talk  about  posies." 

'^  I  do'  know.  Wal,  anyways  —  Mis'  Dacre,  the 
folks  is  all  mad  as  hornets  at  your  tappin'  the  'phone 


so." 


"They  be!" 

"  Yes.  They  found  out  't  was  you  —  fust,  because 
thin's  that  sot  'em  all  by  the  ears  come  from  you 
direct.  An'  nex',  because  they  could  hear  a  big  clock 
tickin'  away  like  an  ingine,  an'  you  're  the  only  one 
that 's  got  a  gran'ther's  clock  —  " 


r2  The  Elder's  People 

"  They  was  tappin'  then/' 

"  An'  they  're  a-talkin'  of  goin'  down  to  head- 
quarters an'  hev  it  put  a  stop  to  —  " 

Mrs.  Dacre  sat  up  straight  —  she  had  not  done 
such  a  thing  in  months.  "Me!  "  she  said.  ^"^Put  a 
stop  to !  "  Her  great  eyes  were  like  a  wild  creature's. 
"  Mis'  Ruggles,"  she  said,  "  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  any  of  my  neighbors  grudge  me  — ■  shet  in  from 
meetin'  an'  from  prayer-meetin'  as  I  be  —  gittin' 
what  plaisure  I  can  out  o'  this  telephone  ? "  She 
stopped  a  moment,  as  if  in  review.  "Why,"  she 
said  then,  "  they  've  alius  come  to  me  with  every- 
thin'  all  their  lives,  or  sent  for  me  to  come  to  them, 
an'  told  me  all  their  worriments.  An'  why  should  n't 
I  hev  it  this  way,  now  when  I  can't  go  out  ?  I  vow 
to  man —  " 

"I'm  only  speakin'  to  save  you  trouble,  Mis' 
Dacre,"  said  Mrs.  Ruggles,  laying  the  witch-hazel 
aside,  as  one  making  ready  for  a  fray.  "  I  come  over 
a-pupuss,  at  consider'ble  pains.  I  hev  a  lot  to  do,  now 
Johnny  's  gone,  an'  I  mos'  broke  my  back  choppin' 
kindlin's,  tel  Saul  Manners  see  me,  an'  come,  in  the 
goodness  o'  his  heart,  an'  sawed  an'  split  all  my 
winter's  wood,  free  gift.  I  thought  you  'd  orter 
know." 

"  You  're  all  right,  Mis'  Ruggles.  But  it 's  cruelty ! 
That 's  what  it  is !  It 's  small  business  to  crowd  an 
old  woman  this  way.  An'  then,  too,"  she  said,  in 
a  calmer    tone,   "it's  mighty   hard    besides — for 


A  Rural  Telephone  73 

Mis'  Symon  's  be'n  tellin*  Mis'  Somers  a  story  she  's 
be'n  readin'  in  some  story  paper,  as  I  gather,  an'  it 's 
jest  at  the  most  interestin'  p'int  —  " 

"  Du  tell !  What 's  it  all  about  ?  " 

"  Lemme  see.  Why,  it  's  about  a  gel,  a  young  gel 
—  she  wa'n't  a  beauty,  you  know,  but  there  was 
sunthin'  to  her  —  maybe  like  you  an'  me,  when  we 
was  young,  don't  you  see  —  " 

"  No,  I  don't !  "  said  the  other,  with  emphasis. 
*^  Cap'n  Ruggles  alius  said  I  -was  a  beauty." 

"  So.  Every  eye  makes  its  own,  ye  know.  An'  there 's 
some  thinks  faculty 's  better  'n  any  show  o'  good 
looks.  John  Dacre  did.  Anyways,  this  young  gel  — 
they  ain't  called  her  by  name  —  had  faculty,  an'  had 
that,  whatever  it  is,  that  makes  folks  set  by  her.  Folks 
was  fond  on  her  —  the  minister,  the  deacon,  the  doc- 
tor—  there  was  nobody  that  wa'n't.  And  of  course 
there  was  some  one  wanted  to  marry  her,  an'  she  him. 
A  fine  feller,  han'some,  sober,  forehanded,  'most  a 
church  member.  An'  the  course  o'  true  love,  you 
know,  never  did  run  smooth ;  an'  there  was  an  old 
woman  in  the  fam'bly  jes'  put  her  foot  down  an' 
forbid  the  banns.  There  wa'n't  no  reason  why;  but 
she  did.  An'  she  kerried  her  p'int.  An'  they  said 
'twas  jes'  like  them  thin's  in  outlandish  stories  — an 
old  vampire  gittin'  the  gel's  life-blood.  An'  then 
somebody  cut  the  'phone  off,  an'  the  last  thin'  they 
said  was  that  the  gel  was  goin'  in  a  gallopin'  con- 
sumption. An'  there  ain't  a  cure  known  for  gallopin' 


74f  The  Elder's  People 

consumption !  My  Lord,  Mis'  Ruggles,  what  if  it  'd 
be'n  my  Nancy !  "  And  suddenly  Mrs.  Dacre  stopped, 
her  eyes,  that  had  been  welling  with  tears,  shedding 
them  like  pearls  as  they  opened  wider  and  wider.  She 
clapped  her  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"  What  is  it.  Mis'  Dacre !  My  grief,  what  is  it !  " 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Dacre  did  not  speak.  She  was 
staring  into  vacancy  as  if  she  saw  something  horrible 
there.  And  then  she  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  gasping. 
"  My  Nancy !  "  she  was  whispering  to  herself.  "  My 
Nancy ! " 

"  Where  's  the  camphire  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Ruggles. 
But  the  old  woman  pushed  her  aside  when  she 
brought  it. 

"You  '11  find  a  pair  o'  shoes  in  that  cluset,"  she 
whispered  presently.  "An'  some  stockin's  in  the  left- 
ban'  corner  o'  the  lower  drawer  o'  the  chist.  Fetch 
'em  here  —  quick  as  winkin'  —  any  on  'em  !  An' 
now,  if  you '11  give  me  a  helpin'  ban',  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do,  the  Lord  helpin',  too."  And  presently  Mrs. 
Dacre  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  a  foot 
on  the  ground.  "  Do  you  s'pose  I  can  walk  acrost 
the  floor  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  s'pose  you  can  do  most  any  thin'  you  set  out 
to  do,"  answered  obedient  Phoebe. 

"I  guess  some  folks  '11  be  supprised,"  said  Mrs. 
Dacre,  drawing  in  her  breath  and  gingerly  following 
one  foot  with  the  other.  "  There !  "  she  exclaimed,  tri- 
umphantly, as,  grasping  the  bedpost,  she  stood  up. 


A  Rural  Telephone  75 

"  When  I  was  a  baby  an'  could  pull  myself  up  by  a 
cheer,  I  walked  off.  I  would  n't  wonder  if  I  could 
do  it  again ! "  And  slightly  tottering,  but  imperi- 
ously waving  Mrs.  Ruggles  away,  she  crossed  the 
room  to  the  big  chest  of  drawers,  and  found  the  va- 
rious garments  she  wanted.  "  You  jest  toss  thet  bed 
together,  Phoebe,  if  you  wanter  help,"  she  said. 
"  There !  "  she  exclaimed  again  at  last.  ''  I  guess  I  kin 
du  without  the  'phone.  You  tell  the  folks,  Phoebe.  A 
man  in  the  house  makes  a  consider'ble  diff'runce. 
Now,"  she  said,  retracing  her  steps,  "  I  'm  clothed, 
an'  in  my  right  mind.  But  I  do  feel  wobbly.  Where 's 
the  'phone  ?  Central !  Gimme  9  —  0  —  9,  ring  three. 
I  want  the  Elder." 

"Mother!  Mother!"  cried  Nancy,  running  in, 
breathlessly,  her  flat-iron  holder  in  hand.  "Oh,  what 
has  happened !  Get  right  back  into  bed !  Oh,  mother 
dear,  do !  Oh,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  die ! "  And  she 
threw  her  arms  around  the  recent  invalid  in  a  resist- 
ing terror. 

"Die?  Nonsense,  Nancy!  Die!  I'm  as  well  as 
ever  I  was  in  my  life.  I  've  had  a  beautiful  rest. 
Where's  your  cambric  dress  ?  " 

"  My  —  what  —  which  one  ?  "  asked  Nancy,  not 
knowing  what  she  said,  and  trembling  as  if  before 
some  catastrophe. 

"Which  one?  The  only  one  you  got!  The  one  I 
stood  up  in  with  your  father  an'  made  over  fer  you  ! 
Put  it  on   quick  —  here  's   Mis'   Ruggles  '11  hook 


76  The  Elder's  People 

it  up.  There  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  any  gallopin'  con- 
sumption in  this  house !  I  'm  callin'  the  Elder  to  fetch 
Saul  Manners  here,  out  o'  hand.  What  fer  ?  Don't 
you  see  I  've  got  my  silk  gownd  on  ?  I  'm  a-goin' 
to  a  weddin' !  My  heart,  what  a  blessin'  the  tele- 
phone is!" 


THE  STEP-FATHER 


IV 

The  Step-Father 

IT  was  peace  at  last.  Nathan  was  off  in  the  dew 
of  the  morning.  Emmy  had  gone  about  on  her 
crutch,  clearing  up,  and  had  picked  over  the  berries 
which,  with  bread  and  milk,  were  to  be  the  chil- 
dren's dinner.   She  would  give  them  thick  Jersey 
cream  to-day ;  not  because  Nathan  was  away,  but, 
well, — because!  And  Davy  was    looking    peaked 
after  that  terrible  dip  in  the  surf.  Nathan  might  be 
gone  'most  a  week.  She  would  have  time  to  build 
Davy  up.  He  needed  mothering.  And  she   didn't 
mother  him  much  before  Nathan.   Sometimes,  when 
the  chance  came,  she  crept  up  to  Davy's  bedside  and 
let  him  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  draw  her 
head  down  on  the  pillow ;  and  they  loved  each  other 
a  great  deal  in  the  few  moments.  Nathan  was  good ; 
but  you    could  n't  expect  him  to  care  for   another 
man's  child  as  he  did  for  his  own  —  and  that  other 
man  his  mortal  enemy. 

Davy  was  outdoors  now,  playing  with  the  Child, 
as  they  called  him  —  dear  little  Than  —  Ranger's 
great  bay  assisting.  And  she  had  bowed  the  blinds 
and  arranged  herself  for  a  rest  on  the  settee,  and  the 
vine  with  its  pink  flower  was  tapping  on  the  window, 
and  the  breath  of  the  honeysuckles  and  wild  roses, 


80  The  Elder's  People 

full  and  sweet  in  the  clear  morning  air,  was  coming 
into  the  dim  room,  and  she  had  been  up  since  three, 
and  she  was  falling  away  in  a  dream  when  her 
mother  burst  in  crying,  "  Where  ^s  Nathan  ? '' 

"  Gone  down  to  ma'sh,"  said  Emmy.   "  Why  ? " 

"  The  Child  's  in  the  well !  That 's  why  !  I  allers 
knowed  that  well.  There  was  nobody  dropped  a 
white  stun  in  it  when  't  was  digged.  An'  I  dassent 
go  down !  An'  you  can't  'ith  yer  lame  foot.  Oh, 
he  '11  be  drowned  w'ile  ye  're  talkin' !  " 

"  Send  Davy ! "  gasped  Emmy,  getting  breath 
after  the  shock,  seizing  her  ciTitch  and  throwing  her- 
self out  while  Mrs.  Ester  spoke.  "  Send  Davy  down ! " 

Nathan  was  a  rich  farmer,  who  had  a  goodly 
piece  of  marsh  a  dozen  or  more  miles  away  from  the 
coast,  before  one  reached  Salt  Water.  His  men  and 
his  neighbors  went  with  him  to  the  mowing  and  the 
stacking  of  the  hay  that  could  not  be  brought  home 
in  the  big  gundelow,  but  would  be  hauled  over  the 
ice  by  and  by. 

Going  to  marsh  was  the  event  of  the  summer  in 
the  Settlement,  and  Nathan  looked  forward  to  it  as 
a  boy  to  a  holiday.  The  loaves  of  bread,  the  dough- 
nuts, the  pies,  the  pandowdy,  the  ham,  the  baked 
beans,  the  jugs  of  coffee,  the  August  Flower  apples, 
would  have  fed  a  troop.  "  The  men-folks  all  count 
on  goin'  down  the  medder  'ith  you,"  said  Emmy,  as 
she  pressed  down  the  cork  of  the  last  jug  of  molasses 
and  ginger  water,  to  be  wrapped  in  wet  towels  for 


The  Step-Father  81 

the  thirst  which  was  not  to  know  the  cool  freshness 
of  old  cider  till  later  in  the  day. 

The  other  men  might  like  the  meadow-mowing 
for  the  frolic ;  but  Nathan  loved  it  for  the  slow  sail 
in  the  breaking  day,  the  camping  under  the  stars  of 
the  immense,  open  sky,  the  gentle  coming  of  the  sun- 
rise, with  the  heavens  of  every  color,  the  message  of 
the  morning  star  in  the  dusk  of  dawn,  and  at  last 
the  homeward  sail  in  sunset  and  evening  shadows 
■ — with  Emmy  waiting.  They  went  now  pushing 
the  gundelow  with  poles  through  the  sedges  of  the 
narrow  creek,  till  they  should  come  out  on  the  little 
river  and  spread  the  clumsy  sail ;  and,  if  the  wind 
played  fair,  all  was  well ;  and,  if  not,  they  would 
bend  to  their  long  sweeps. 

The  thread  of  a  golden,  waning  moon  had  faded, 
and  the  pearly  gray  of  sky  and  air  was  interfused 
with  a  dream  of  rose.  As  they  came  to  the  more 
open  water,  the  reaches  there  seemed  to  have  been 
waiting  for  them,  reaches  of  green  marshes  drenched 
in  dew,  shot  ever^^where  with  silver;  and  it  struck 
him  anew  that  this  wide  world  of  green  wonder  had 
been  here  all  night,  all  day,  living  its  own  life.  They 
crept  through  tall  swishing  thatch  that  swept  back, 
lifting  its  sparkling  blades  above  their  heads.  A  be- 
lated water-rat  slipped  low  through  the  bordering 
rushes;  a  bird  tossed  off  from  the  tip  of  a  tall  spire; 
and  now  they  were  in  the  open  river.  A  flock  of 
gulls  flashed  white  and  silver  over  them ;  a  meadow- 


82  The  Elder\  People 

lark  was  singing ;  there  came  a  sound  of  surf  from 
far  away;  a  scarlet  fin  flashed  down  translucent 
depths,  and  here  a  streak  of  silver.  Then  all  the  air 
was  opaline,  and  the  broken  gleams,  the  freshness 
and  dewiness,  were  as  if  the  pale  land  and  water 
were  just  made  and  divided  by  the  hand  of  God. 

In  all  the  wideness  and  gathering  light,  the  in- 
effable luminous  distance,  the  tingling  odors  of  grass 
and  sea,  Nathan  felt  in  inarticulate  ways  an  opening 
mystery  that  he  was  never  quite  to  penetrate.  The 
slow  movement,  the  companionship  with  the  gray 
water,  the  gray  air  pierced  here  and  there  with  sun 
and  flame,  the  swelling  tide,  the  mists  rolling  in  white 
billows  from  the  glistening  grass,  the  whole  long 
hour,  was  like  a  sacrament  to  Nathan.  He  wished 
the  Elder  were  with  him.  But,  although  some  of  the 
men  were  the  Elder's  deacons,  or  on  the  way  to  be- 
come so,  they  would  not  have  cared  to  have  him 
there.  They  were  not  going  to  swear ;  the  hard  cider 
was  allowed  at  the  mowing ;  but  it  was  their  day  of 
freedom,  their  bout  of  wrestling  at  end  of  work,  their 
swim  at  high  water,  if  the  tides  were  considerate.  Con- 
sequently, the  Elder  might  have  been  out  of  place. 

And  so  the  long  day  began ;  *the  grass  fell  in  broad 
swaths  before  the  singing  scythes,  Nathan,  youngest 
and  most  stalwart,  setting  the  mighty  stroke.  They 
had  finished  the  noon  meal  and  were  stretching  their 
shoulders  for  another  advance,  when  Harding  cried, 
"  What 's  that  mean,  Nate  ?  "  and  a  small  gunning- 


The  Step-Father  83 

float  was  rounding  a  creek,  paddled  with   all  the 
power  of  Davy's  little  arms. 

The  original  sin  in  Nathan  suddenly  made  itself 
felt ;  but  he  said  not  a  word.  If  Harding  had  ex- 
claimed, "  Blast  that  boy  !  "  he  would  have  been  in- 
dignant. It  was  Emmy's  child ;  and  he  had  come  to 
know  that  Davy  was  only  the  child  of  his  mother. 
He  had  tried  not  to  think  of  the  father. 

There  had  been  no  time  in  his  youth  when  he  had 
not  expected  to  marry  Emmy  himself.  He  had  built 
his  house ;  and  Emmy  had  said  just  where  she  wanted 
the  buttery  and  where  she  would  have  the  spring- 
house  ;  and  she  would  have  the  well  deep  enough  to 
be  inexhaustible,  and  he  had  sunk  it  through  the 
ledge  to  living  water.  A  man  died  afterwards,  so 
long  afterwards  that  people  doubted  if  it  was  from 
injury  at  the  blasting;  but  Mrs.  Ester  did  not  like 
to  drink  that  water.  And  Emmy  had  her  wedding- 
clothes,  and  he  his  freedom  suit,  and  they  meant  it 
should  be  when  harvesting  was  over. 

Then  there  came  along  a  dashing  recruiting  ser- 
geant, a  slim  and  handsome  fellow  in  his  uniform, 
full  of  taking  arts  and  most  engaging  ways,  with  a 
flash  in  the  tail  of  his  eye  and  a  smile  and  a  voice 
that  would  wile  a  bird  from  a  bough.  And  what  girl 
of  lonely  farms  would  not  have  felt  some  impulsion 
towards  the  adventure  and  daring,  the  force  of  the 
unknown,  the  kindling  of  imagination  ?  Although 
he  took  no  men  away  with  him,  he  took  Emmy. 


84  The  Elder's  People 

Emmy  came  back  within  two  years.  Her  husband 
had  been  killed  in  a  barroom  scuffle ;  but  she  wore 
no  mourning.  She  carried  a  child  with  a  lame  back 
in  her  arms.  The  boy  had  a  slow,  if  not  defective, 
intelligence.  Except  to  walk  up  and  down  the  yard 
with  him,  she  never  went  out  of  the  house. 

It  was  after  she  heard  of  the  man's  death  that 
Emmy's  mother  had  the  sickness  which  called  the 
Elder  up  the  hill.  Miss  Mahala  Brooks  having  told 
him  about  her. 

"  If  you  want  the  plain  truth,"  said  Miss  Mahala, 
"  she  's  ben  a-practicin'  witchcraft." 

"Miss  Mahala,"  said  the  Elder,  "I'm  surprised 
at  you." 

"  Oh,  you  no  need,"  she  said.  "  The  fact  is  our 
fust  folks  over  here  was  surrounded  'ith  forests,  an' 
dear  knows  w'at  o'  terrors,  an'  their  thoughts  was  all 
about  mysteries,  an'  they  was  hungr>^  for  marvels, 
an'  filled  the  dark  'ith  signs  an'  wonders,  an'  was 
allers  circumventin'  sperrits.  Sort  o'  in  our  blood. 
No,  it  ain't  all  petered  out  yit.  I  dessay  you  an' 
Mis'  Perry  don't  like  to  spill  the  salt  a-tween  ye." 

"Nor  anywhere  else,"  said  the  Elder. 

"As  fer  that  poor  little  critter,"  Miss  Mahala 
continued,  "  she 's  ben  a-livin'  up  there  on  her  perch 
all  alone,  an'  she  sees  thin's  o'  darkness,  an'  she  knows 
how  the  wind's  goin'  ter  blow  by  the  way  the  cat 
p'ints  her  tail,  an'  she  has  a  black  cat  because  it 's 
intimate  'ith  them  thin's.  There  can't  a  cloud  sweep 


The  Step-Father  85 

over  the  clover  'ithout  her  thinkin'  it 's  the  shadder 
of  Apollyon.  Natur'  helps  her,  too.  I  was  to  supper 
there,  an'  she  give  me  two  teaspoons.  ^  There,'  ses 
she,  'some  one's  comin'  here  hungry!'  An',  sure 
enough,  Emmy  come  home  that  night.  An'  w'en  they 
was  firin'  that  Fourth  o'  July  cannon  on  the  hilltop 
an'  the  shock  broke  her  little  lookin' -glass,  '  there 's 
goin'  ter  be  a  death  in  this  fam'bly,'  ses  she, 
a-crossin'  her  fingers.  An',  ef  you  '11  b'lieve  it,  that 
recruiter  was  killed  that  day !  " 

"  'T  ain't  nothin'  doctor's  stuff,  nor  Bible  varses 
either,  can  cure,"  said  Emmy's  mother,  when  the 
Elder  came  up  the  hill.  She  rocked  violently  a  little 
while.  "  It 's  the  mind  that 's  killin'  me  ! "  she  ex- 
claimed then.  "You're  sure.  Elder,  you'll  never 
speak  on't  ?  "  she  said  again  after  a  little.  "I  won't 
git  no  relief  till  I  du  tell.  An'  I  do'  know  how  I  can 
tell ! "  And  again  she  was  silent.  "  I  don't  s'pose 
the  lor  can  reach  me  ?  "  she  said  presently,  as  if  just 
waking.  "But  there!  Oh,  I'm  an  awfle  wicked 
woman !  You  listenin'  ?  Hark !  Elder,  I  ain't  sure 
but  w'at  I  've  done  murder!  " 

"Mrs.  Ester!" 

"  Yes,  Elder  Perry.  I  won't  keep  nothin'  back," 
swallowing  hard.  "  I  took  my  cake  o'  beeswax,  an' 
I  made  a  man  out'n  it,  mebbe  a  finger  long,  ye  know. 
An'  I  sot  it  on  the  h'arth  ter  melt.  An'  I  said,  ses 
I,  'Power  o'  darkness,  power  o'  sin,  melt  him  as  I 
melt  this  thin'.  'Bracalam!'  An'  he  died,  Elder,  he 


86  The  Elder's  People 

died.  An'  I  s'pose  I  kilt  him !  Oh,  do  you  s'pose  I 
kilt  him  ?  "  she  asked  piteously. 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  the  Elder,  "that  all  my 
ministering  has  come  to  this !  " 

"  He  took  my  Emmy,"  she  whimpered.  "  He  tor- 
mented her !  There 's  the  letter  she  sent  ter  tell  me." 

"  You  break  my  heart !  " 

"  You  must  n't  talk  that  a- way.  Elder !  "  she 
sobbed.  "  I  won't  hear  tell 't.  I  only  meant  ter  git 
my  Emmy  back.  She 's  my  own  an'  only." 

"Mrs.  Ester,"  said  the  Elder,  "you  committed  a 
crime  in  your  heart ;  and  you  are  not  sorry  for  it. 
You  are  only  frightened." 

"  Oh,  w'at  do  ye  guess  '11  be  done  ter  me !  "  she 
moaned,  shivering. 

"Nothing." 

She  looked  up,  radiant  for  a  heart-beat. 

"  Your  punishment  is  in  yourself,"  he  continued. 
"  In  being  a  creature  capable  of  such  sin  and  folly. 
A  worm  is  a  worm." 

"  It  don't  allers  stay  a  worm.  Elder,"  a  light  in  her 
black  eye  making  her  tears  seem  like  sparks  of  fire. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  the  Elder,  more  gently. 
"  Perhaps,  sometime  you  will  find  your  wings,  too. 
There  is  only  one  way.  Except  —  "  the  Elder  paused, 
having  some  care  of  the  body  as  well  as  of  the  soul. 
"  Well,  some  raisins  in  your  porridge,  and  some  red 
meat  every  day,  will  help  you.  I  will  bring  a  tonic 
when  I  come  again." 


The  Step- Father  87 

"  Oh,  Elder,  I  would  n't  'a'  hurt  ye  fer  all  the 
gold  in  Guinea!  You  forgive  me,  an'  I  guess  the 
Lord  will.  But  here's  Emmy  fetched  that  child  o' 
his'n,  —  an'  I  do'  know  how  I  can  a-bear  it !  " 

"  There 's  nothing  else  to  do,"  said  the  Elder, 
simply. 

"  He 's  crooked,"  whispered  Mrs.  Ester. 

"  He  needs  his  grandmother  so  much  the  more." 

"An'  he  ain't  all  there.  Sits  starin'  an'  makin' 
faces." 

"Come,  come,  Mrs.  Ester.  He'll  outgrow  that." 

"  Wen  he  looks  at  ye'  'ith  them  big  eyes —  wal, 
/do'  know!" 

And  at  last  the  Elder  prayed  with  Mrs.  Ester. 
"  He  ain't  prayed  a  mite  fer  me,"  she  said  after- 
wards. "  'Most  all  he  said  was  fer  Da\y.  An'  he 
went  off  before  I  could  call  Emmy  ter  give  him 
some  o'  my  rosb'ry-shrub.  It 's  a  sight  more  body 
to  it  'n  Mis'  Warner's." 

Emmy  had  been  back  a  year  before  Nathan  saw 
her.  Then  one  day  he  kindled  a  fire  on  the  hearth 
of  the  house  he  had  built,  whose  fires  had  not  been 
lighted  before,  and  went  up  the  hill.  Emmy  rose  as 
he  came  into  the  dark,  low  room  that  afternoon. 
Pale  as  death,  she  hung  her  head  and  dared  not  look 
up,  poised  on  one  foot  as  if  for  flight.  Then,  in 
some  way,  she  became  conscious  that  his  arms  were 
open  and  held  out  to  her ;  and  she  fled  into  them  as 
into  a  refuge.   "  Get  your  bonnet,"  he  said  hoarsely. 


88  The  Elder*  s  People 

"We  will  go  down  to  the  Elder's  and  then  to  our 
own  house.  The  fire 's  waitin'.'* 

"  She  ain't  a  scrap  to  blame,  Nathan  ! "  piped  her 
mother.  "  That  fellow  got  her  will  under.  The'  is 
sech  thin's." 

"  It 's  all  a  bad  dream,"  said  Nathan. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Emmy.  "  It 's  no  dream.'*  And 
she  glanced  at  Davy,  who  sat  on  the  floor,  watching 
the  cat  wash  her  face.   "  You  see  it 's  no  dream." 

"  He  can  stay  with  your  mother,"  said  Nathan. 

"  Stay  with  mother !  My  boy  ?  No,  no,  no," 
cried  Emmy.   "  I  'm  all  he 's  got.  You  see,  you  see  !  " 

"Emmy!" 

"  Leave  my  child  ?  An'  to  mother,  who  's  scared 
of  him  ?  My  poor  Davy  !  What  sort  of  a  woman  'd 
I  be?  I  done  wrong.  Oh,  I  know  I  done  wrong; 
but  I  '11  not  do  that."  And  she  caught  the  wondering 
child  in  her  arms  and  faced  Nathan  in  her  mother's 
fury,  her  cheeks  flaming,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  tears 
glittering. 

But  Nathan  hardly  saw  her  for  the  blur  before  his 
heated  brain.  "You  would  give  me  up  a  second 
time  ?  "  he  said. 

"Oh,  Nathan !  "  she  sobbed,  hiding  her  face  in 
the  child's  gown. 

But  Nathan  had  gone.  He  was  on  his  way  to  re- 
lease the  Elder. 

"  You  forbid  your  own  banns,  Nathan  ?  "  asked 
the  good  man. 


The  Step-Father  89 

"  Fer  all  time,"  Nathan  replied.  "  I  '11  go  now 
and  scatter  the  bran's.  There'll  never  be  fire  in  that 
h'arth  ag'in." 

"Because  she  won't  abandon  her  child.  What 
would  you  think  of  her  if  she  did  ? "  He  paused. 
"  In  old  times,"  he  said,  then,  "  I  used  to  go  hunt- 
ing considerable.  Perhaps  I  was  n't  exactly  a  mighty 
himter  before  the  Lord,  but  I  brought  down  good 
game.  Once,  I  had  unearthed  a  big  bear  from  a  hol- 
low in  a  blueberry  swamp,  where  she  had  brought 
her  cubs  to  feast.  She  was  an  old  marauder  and  knew 
about  guns.  She  could  have  made  kindlings  of  my 
gun-stock,  but  that  meant  exposing  her  cubs  to  fire 
first ;  she  could  have  escaped  with  a  few  bounds  to 
safety,  but  that  meant  leaving  her  cubs  at  my  mercy. 
And  so  she  stood  there  shielding  them  and  defying 
me.  It  was  in  my  unregenerate  days,  but  I  thought 
too  well  of  the  mother  defending  her  young  to  hurt 
her ;  I  left  her  standing  over  them." 

"  You  mean  that  I  should  suffer  all  my  life  by 
sight  of  that  man's  child  ?  " 

"  Her  child  —  the  sorry  youngster.  But  I  look 
for  his  improvement,  man." 

"To  be  put  in  mind  every  day  by  her  — " 

"  Don't  say  it,  my  son.  I  am  inclined  to  think," 
said  the  Elder,  looking  up  at  the  sky  and  watching  a 
hawk  pursue  a  bird  in  the  blue,  "  yes,  inclined  to  think 
Emmy  was  —  well,  not  a  free  agent.  You  may  have 
heard  of  such  a  thing  as  hypnotism.  No  ?  But  there 


90  The  Elder's  People 

is  said  to  be  a  quality  —  about  which  little  is  known 
—  possessed  by  some,  through  which  they  oblige  an- 
other person  to  obey  body  and  soul.  That  ^s  possi- 
bly what  came  to  Emmy.  Whether  or  no,  the  man 
has  paid  his  forfeit.  And  you  would  leave  Emmy  to 
bear  her  share  of  it  alone  ?  You  're  not  the  man  I 
take  you  to  be,  Nathan,  if  you  don't  bring  her  over 
here  before  dark !  " 

V  Nathan  brought  her  over.  Emmy's  mother  mag- 
nanimously said  the  boy  could  stay  a  day  or  two, 
and  Emmy,  as  magnanimously,  allowed  it,  so  that 
Nathan  for  that  time  might  feel  as  he  would  have 
felt  had  the  recruiting  sergeant  never  been  heard  of. 
He  did  not  know  that  every  morning,  as  soon  as  he 
was  gone  afield,  Emmy  ran  up  the  hill  to  comfort 
Davy.  But  at  last  Nathan  went  up  for  the  boy  him- 
self; and,  as  he  felt  the  little  thin  arms  around  his 
neck,  he  resolved  he  would  care  for  the  child  for 
what  he  was  to  Emmy. 

"  It  does  seem 's  ef  I  was  ter  hev  a  gran'child,  to 
my  age,"  said  Emmy's  mother,  "it  might  'a'  ben 
suthin'  diff'runt  from  this  come-by-chance-like." 

"  What  could  you  expec'  ?  "  said  Nathan.  "  You 
let  her  marry." 

"  I  let  her !  In  ole  times,  w'en  the'  was  witches, 
folks  uster  say  the  Prince  o'  Darkness  come  in  the 
shape  of — " 

"  Sho  ! "  said  Nathan.  "  You  don't  believe  such 
trash,  Mis'  Ester?" 


The  Step-Father  91 

"Trash!"  cried  the  exasperated  little  woman. 
"  Don't  ve  b'lieve  vour  Bible  where  it  tells  o'  the 
prince  o'  devils  ?  They  cast  out  devils  by  the  prince 
o'  devils?  You'd  orter  know  better,  Nathan.  You 
hed  a  good  religious  bringin'-up.  You  think  because 
you  ain't  see  thin's  —  w'y  I  woke  up  one  momin', 
'fore  sun-up,  an'  two  great  angels,  with  long  wings, 
the  color  of  a  rose,  was  stan'in'  ter  the  foot  o'  my 
bed.  I  seen  'em  I  But  I  'm  glad  you  come  ter-day, 
'stid  o'  ter-morrer.  I  would  n't  want  the  boy  ter  begin 
his  life  ter  your  house  on  a  Friday,  w'atever  I  think 
on  him.  Ef  a  child  ain't  possessed  that  sets  up  an' 
washes  his  face  like  the  cat  that 's  a-spittin'  at  him, 
I  do'  know  signs.  He  mumbles  an'  talks  ter  thin's 
in  the  air  that  I  can't  see ! " 

In  spite  of  himself  Nathan  shuddered.  There  he 
sat  now,  mumbling  and  mouthing  as  the  woman  had 
said. 

"  What  is  it,  Da\y  ?  "  asked  Nathan  s}Tnpatheti- 
cally. 

The  boy  threw  up  his  arms,  his  face  flushed,  his 
lips  worked,  his  shoulders  bent  as  with  supreme 
effort,  and  all  at  once,  beaming  in  success,  ''  My 
dear  daddy!  "  he  cried. 

It  was  what  he  had  been  trv'ing  to  say  ever  since 
Emmvhad  said  it  for  him.  And  Nathan  caught  him 
up  and  seated  him  on  his  shoulder,  and  Emmy  burst 
into  happy  tears.  Perhaps  the  boy  was  not  so  un- 
lovely after  all. 


92  The  Elder's  People 

But  with  this,  the  force  of  some  pressure,  some 
bond,  had  been  broken.  The  boy  began  to  grow, 
his  back  to  straighten,    Nathan    rubbing   it   every 
morning,  since  it  saved  Emmy  from  doing  it.    He 
could  not  but  feel  a  tenderness  for  the  little,  soft, 
warm  back  under  his  hand.  "There's  thin's a-drorin' 
the  life  out  'n  him,"  said  his  grandmother.   "  He  '11 
be  goin'  out  altogether  like  a  shadder  in  the  lookin'- 
glass."  And  then  Nathan  determined  he  should  n't. 
He  was  vexed  that  he  had  been  best  pleased  when 
Davy  effaced  himself.  And  yet,  when  Davy  began  to 
talk  and  asked  his  mother  where  yesterday  had  gone 
to,  and  where  they  kept  the  to-morrows,  he  had  a 
new  sensation  of  the  uncanny.   But  that  was  fanci- 
ful ;  what  was  plain  fact  was  that  the  child  was  a 
living  evidence  of  Emmy's  fault,  and  he  wished  to 
forget  Emmy's  fault;    and,  just  as  he  would  be 
thinking  more  kindly  than  usual  of  the  boy,  recol- 
lection would  rush  in  and  make  it  all  unbearable. 
He  tried  to  conceal  it;  but  he  knew  that  Emmy  was 
conscious  of  it,  and  that  was  unbearable,  too.  When 
he  saw  Davy  sitting  on  his  cricket,  looking  out  with 
wistful  eyes,  his  self-reproach  was  disturbing. 

And  one  day,  one  joyous  day,  little  Than  was 
bom.  In  his  happiness  Nathan  felt  even  Davy  had 
rights,  and  was  pleased  with  himself  for  that.  He 
wondered  how  Davy  regarded  the  newcomer.  '  I 
think  my  little  brother  will  love  me,"  said  Davy,  as 
if  in  answer.  He  brought  the  big  hound,  then,  fear- 


The  Step-Father  93 

fill  of  his  jealousy,  and  holding  his  collar,  Davy 
thinking  he  helped  on  the  other  side.  They  disar- 
ranged the  blanket  by  their  movement,  and  one 
little  pink  foot  protruded ;  and,  when  Ranger  had 
looked  the  baby  over,  he  thrust  out  his  long  red 
tongue  and  licked  the  tiny  foot;  and  Davy  hugged 
the  dog  and  kissed  his  black  nose,  not  at  all  to  the 
dog's  pleasure. 

Nathan  knew  he  would  never  be  wholly  happy 
till  he  should  be  wholly  comfortable  about  Da\y. 
But  often  lately  he  had  seen  a  compelling  sweetness 
in  Davy;  and  then  it  was  like  a  consecration  for 
Davy  to  be  the  brother  of  little  Than.  As  for  the 
precious  little  Than  himself,  he  developed  an  amaz- 
ing precocit}'.  He  was  as  restless  as  the  wind,  as 
mischievous,  as  caressing.  Emmy  was  radiant  with 
him ;  Davy  waited  on  his  least  caprice,  and  Nathan 
idolized  him.  Nathan  wished  to  be  just;  but  how 
was  it  possible ! 

One  day  Nathan  returned  from  Salt  Water,  where 
he  had  carried  a  load  of  windfalls,  and,  when  he 
came  into  the  house,  he  took  little  Than  on  his 
knee  and  began  to  try  a  pair  of  red  shoes  on  his 
pretty  feet,  and  the  child  crowed  with  delight.  What 
made  Davy  come  then  and  lay  his  own,  small,  bare 
foot  on  Nathan's  knee  ?  Nathan  took  off  the  red 
shoes,  and  he  did  not  bring  them  from  their  hiding- 
place  till  he  had  been  down  to  Salt  Water  again 
and  brought  Davy  a  pair  of  bronzed  shoes  for  his 


94  The  Elder's  People 

very  own.  If  that  was  justice,  nevertheless  he  felt  it 
something  sweeter.  He  was  quite  pleased  with  him- 
self. 

The  great  storm  had  just  cleared  away,  when  Mrs. 
Ester  came  down  from  her  eerie,  having  heard  that 
the  island  —  the  long  sea-bulwark  of  the  marshes, 
whose  sand-dunes  received  the  perpetual  onslaught 
of  great  seas,  was  being  washed  away.  She  wanted 
Nathan  to  harness  old  Blazes  and  take  her  down. 

"I'll  never  feel  I've  got  a  clean  floor  ag'in 
'thout  my  scourin'  sand,"  she  said.  "I  s'pose  the 
sea  '11  be  a-breakin'  over  the  ma'sh  nex'  storm." 

"  Why,  Mis'  Ester,  the  shore 's  allers  a-washin' 
away  an'  washin'  back.  The  island  '11  be  there  w'en 
we  're  clean  fergotten." 

"  Mebbe  't  will  an'  mebbe  't  wont ;  I  ain't  takin' 
chances.  An'  ter-day's  a  lucky  day,  for  I  found  a 
four-leaf  clover  w'en  I  opened  the  door,  an'  here  's 
a  hoss-shoe  I  picked  up,  full  o'  nails.  An'  it 's  goin' 
ter  be  fair,  fer  there 's  spiders'  webs  on  the  grass. 
What  say  ?  I  '11  take  Davy  an'  give  him  a  dip  in 
the  water.    It 's  only  a  dozen  miles  more  or  less." 

"  All  right,"  said  Nathan.  "  Emmy  needs  some, 
anyways,"  and  presently  they  were  off".  And,  after 
their  bags  were  filled,  Mrs.  Ester  working  like  a 
troll,  they  crossed  for  a  sight  of  the  white  sea- 
horses racing  up  the  reefs.  And  Davy  was  stripped 
for  his  bath,  and  went  wading  in  a  shallow  cove; 
and  directly  there  was  a  wild  outcry,  for  the  suck- 


The  Step- Father  95 

ing  tides  had  torn  out  a  shelf  of  sand  and  Dav)^  had 
plunged  out  of  sight. 

In  an  instant  Nathan  was  in  the  surf  and  strug- 
gling to  reach  the  boy,  already  drawn  out  by  the 
receding  wave.  It  was  not  merely  Emmy's  boy ;  it 
was  Davy !  A  stiff  fight,  but  Nathan  won ! 

"Oh,  I  had  n't  orter  let  him  gone  in,"  cried  Mrs. 
Ester.  "I  'd  orter  minded  the  sparrer  that  flew  in  the 
winder  t'  other  day.  It 's  a  sure  sign.  An'  Ranger  was 
a-howlin*  all  night ;  I  heered  him  'way  up  the  hill. 
Oh,  I  hope  he  ain't  took  his  death  o'  cold!" 

And,  when  Davy  was  well  rubbed,  they  made 
Nathan  consent  to  be  buried  in  the  warm  sand, 
Davy's  little  hands  piling  it  unweariedlv,  his  face 
full  of  concern,  and  his  voice  full  of  endearment. 

It  was  strange;  but  having  saved  Davy,  Nathan 
had  the  feeling  of  having  given  him  life,  and  with  it 
a  novel  sense  of  ownership  that  warmed  his  heart. 
He  lay  on  the  settle  next  day,  with  the  hot  headache 
of  a  hea\y  cold,  while  Davy  changed  cool  cloths 
on  his  head,  Emmy  having  all  she  could  do  to  keep 
about,  her  ankle  being  sprained  by  a  stumble  over 
the  sand-bags.  Nathan  laid  a  hot  hand  over  Davy's, 
as  it  rested  on  his  forehead,  and  held  it  there  with  a 
quickening  sense  that  made  his  head  throb  more. 

"  Never  mind  the  cloths,  Davy,"  he  said.  "  Set 
down  an'  tell  me  how  you  felt  in  the  water.  Fright- 
ened ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  wam't  frightened,"  said  Davy  slowly. 


96  The  Elder's  People 

"Grandmother  screamed;  I  didn't.  I  knew  you'd 
git  me." 

It  was  not  many  days  afterward  that  Nathan  saw 
Davy  standing  on  the  gunning-float  in  the  creek  that 
in  the  evening  light  painted  again  the  new  moon, 
hung  in  the  violet  air.  The  boy  stood  up  and  bowed 
repeatedly. 

"What's  that  you're  a-doin'  of,  Davy?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  My  grandmother  said  if  I  bowed  to  the  moon 
nine  times  I  'd  have  my  wish,"  said  Davy  solemnly. 

"  That  is  heathen,"  said  Nathan.  "  It 's  bowin' 
down  to  false  gods.  What  did  you  wish  fer,  eh  ? " 

"I  —  I  wished  my  daddy  'd  love  me,"  said  the 
boy,  turning  to  hide  his  face,  "  as  much  as  he  does 
the  Child." 

Nathan  could  not  speak.  Regret,  anger,  grief — 
too  many  thoughts  came  for  uttering.  "  You  're  a 
good  boy,  Davy,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  you  do  wish 
by  the  moon.  You  stay  good,  and  everybody  '11  love 
you." 

"Mother,"  said  Davy,  when  he  had  said  his 
prayers  that  night,  "  does  God  look  like  daddy  ?  " 

But  if  Davy  was  a  good  boy,  it  was  more  than 
little  Than  was.  Lavish  of  caresses  that  meant  noth- 
ing, of  promises  never  kept,  he  defied  everyone  and 
obeyed  no  one.  But  he  was  full  of  taking  arts  and 
most  engaging  ways,  with  that  flash  in  the  tail  of  the 
eye  that  takes  hearts  —  baby  though  he  was  —  with 


The  Step-Father  97 

that  melting  voice.  Hereditary  ps}xholog}^  did  not  con- 
cern Nathan  and  Emmy ;  it  was  enough  for  them 
that  he  was  a  miracle. 

"  Ain't  it  time  ye  hed  the  Child  christened,  Na- 
than ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ester,  wayla)^ing  her  son-in-law. 

"He'd  orter  b'en,"  said  Nathan  slowly. 

"  Chris'nin', "  said  Mrs.  Ester  with  some  chaotic 
notion  of  bell,  book  and  candle,  "  might  chase  off 
the  thin's  that 's  a-puttin'  him  up  ter  pranks." 

"  We  do'  know  jest  how  he  '11  ack,"  said  Nathan. 

"  I  'd  know  ef  he  was  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Ester. 

"  He  ain't,"  said  Nathan. 

"  Look  at  him  now  a-teterin'  on  the  well-curb, 
'ith  his  heels  up,  ter  see  the  g}" psy  face  down  there. 
Nex'  thin'  he'll  be  in.  Ef  he  was  mine,  which  as 
you  say  he  ain't,  I  'd  tweak  his  ear  on  the  spot." 

"  Which  ear  ?  "  said  Nathan. 

If  watching  his  mother-in-law  up  the  hill  he 
thought  that,  with  her  clothes  flying  about  her  little 
meager  shape,  she  looked  like  one  who  consorted  with 
sprites  and  "thin's,"  he  didn't  say  it. 

He  sat,  that  sunset,  holding  the  Child,  subdued  by 
sleepiness  into  something  tender,  with  Da\y  on  the 
cricket  beside  the  door,  through  which  they  saw  the 
mown  meadows  in  the  yellow  light,  and  farther  off, 
lifted  against  sea  and  sky,  the  marshes  ripe  to  red- 
ness, with  stretches  of  umber  and  of  emerald,  ready 
for  the  morrow's  reaping.  Emmy,  leaning  on  her 
crutch,  was  mixing  her  sponge  and  singing,  lightly, 


98  The  Elder's  People 

as  if  her  old  fugue  were  a  dancing  tune.  She  saw  him 
smile  at  Davy,  and  she  flashed  back  another  smile. 
But  he  did  not  know  he  had  smiled.  He  only  felt  his 
conscience  clear,  his  heart  uplifted,  and  the  world  a 
good  place  to  live  in.  His  small  son  was  heavy  on 
his  arm,  falling  asleep,  and  Nathan  silently  said  a 
little  prayer  of  praise  and  petition  for  him.  As  he 
did  so,  his  other  hand  rested  unconsciously  on  the 
head  of  Davy,  who  had  arisen  from  his  seat  and  come 
to  look  at  the  sleeper,  Ranger  following. 

When,  an  hour  or  two  later,  in  the  dusk  of  the 
purple  twilight,  Nathan  happened  to  glance  into  the 
children's  room,  and  saw  the  boy's  head  ringed  over 
with  its  fair,  short  curls,  and  one  arm  thrown  over 
little  Than,  he  stole  in  and  put  his  own  arm  over  Davy 
and  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead.  Nathan  was  a 
man  of  seldom  kisses.  It  was  in  the  dark  but  for  the 
gleam  of  a  great  evening  star  that  shone  through  the 
window  and  laid  the  shadow  of  a  cross  upon  the  bed; 
it  might  not  have  been  easy  in  the  light. 

It  was  a  few  days  later,  when  the  men  were  just 
ending  their  nooning,  that  the  gunning-float  came 
round  the  curve,  paddled  by  Davy.  "  My  mother  sent 
me  !  "  Davy  called.  "The  Child 's  fell  down  the  well. 
He  's  out ;  but  he  hit  his  head  and  he  won't  come  to." 
The  sun  shone  in  Davy's  tears. 

With  a  bound  Nathan  was  in  the  float;  but  as 
instantly  he  had  seen  a  small  sailboat  tacking  upstream 
against  the  wind ;  he  had  hailed  and  paddled  ofl"  to 


The  Step-Father  99 

it,  and  taken  possession  with  the  freemasonry  of  river- 
craft  and  was  flying  up  the  creeks.  The  currents  did 
not  run  strong  enough  for  him  to  conquer;  the  day, 
with  its  shining  sun,  its  velvet  azure,  its  gusts  of  fra- 
grance; the  white  sails  in  distant  creeks;  the  cows 
knee-deep  in  the  sweet  upland  grasses  —  all  were 
cruel  in  their  indifference  to  his  distress.  "  O  my  God !  " 
he  said  over  and  over  in  his  thought.  "  O  my  God ! " 
as  if  adjuring  the  divine  presence. 

And  the  boy  in  the  stem  of  the  boat  kept  a  wistful, 
loving  look  upon  him,  in  some  strange  way  feeling 
with  almost  a  man's  sympathy  the  depths  of  appre- 
hension that  Nathan  was  sounding  and  showing  so 
plainly  with  set  jaw  and  working  muscle.  He  said 
nothing  to  him,  but  twice  he  put  his  hand  affection- 
ately on  Nathan's  knee  and  smiled  courageously  into 
his  eyes,  but  Nathan  took  no  notice  of  him,  his  whole 
soul  having  flown  to  little  Than  —  his  child. 

The  afternoon  was  pink  in  the  west  when  Nathan 
sprung  to  the  landing,  Davy  scrambling  after.  Emmy 
sat  on  the  porch  rocking  the  Child,  who  laughed, 
holding  his  arms  to  his  father.  Perhaps  the  blow  on 
his  head  had  changed  the  action  of  ner\^e  or  brain. 
"  Than  will  never  be  drowned  again,"  he  said  softly. 

"He'd  'a'  b'en  drowned  this  time,  sure,"  cried 
Mrs.  Ester,  "  ef  Davy  had  n't  run  down  them  slip- 
pery rocks  like  a  spider  an'  pulled  him  out.  I  could 
n't  'a'  done  it  ter  save  my  soul.  That  well  was  digged 
in  the  dark  o'  the  moon.  I  'd  fill  it  in  ef  I  was  you. 


100  The  Elder's  People 

Probably  the  stream  comes  from  some  place  where 
monstrous  evil  deeds  was  done.  Yes,  Davy  got  him, 
stun  by  stun.  He 's  come  round  all  right.'' 

"  Davy,"  said  Nathan,  arresting  the  boy,  "  did 
you  save  my  little  son  for  me  ? "  And  he  took  Davy 
in  his  arms  and  laid  his  face  on  his.  "  Davy,  my  dear 
own  eldest  son!  "  he  said. 

"  Ain't  you  glad  you  wished  by  the  moon  ?  "  said 
the  indomitable  little  grandmother  with  satisfaction. 
"  Wal,  I  must  be  goin'.  The 's  thin's  out  arter  dark.'* 


->    :   5    i    > ; 


JOHN-A-DREAMS 


John-a-Dreams 

YOU  wouldn't  wish  for  a  pleasanter  person 
round  the  house,"  Mrs.  Somers  was  replying 
to  her  gossip.  "  I  never  heerd  him  say  so  much  as 
*  Why  do  you  so  ? '  to  the  cat.  An'  she 's  a  very 
masterly  cat." 

"  He  ain't  spoke  to  Si  Martin  this  twenty  year." 

"  Si  Martin 's  b'en  out  West.  He  could  n't  very 
well.  Si  done  him  an  ill  turn  oncet  an'  he  ain't  fer- 
got  it.    That 's  one  o'  his  dreams.'^ 

"  Wal  —  fer  a  perfesser  —  " 

"  Now,  stop  right  there,  Phoebe  Ruggles.  John 's 
allers  said  his  religion  wam't  nothin'  ter  speak  on, 
an'  he  ain't  made  no  blow  about  it." 

"  He  don't  seem  much  like  a  deacon.  Young  fer 
one,  anyways." 

"  Mebbe.  But  they  jes'  'p'inted  him  'count  o'  his 
gift  fer  prayer  an'  his  singin'  o'  hymns.  I  guess 
likely  he's  fergot  w'at  the  diff'runce  'ith  Si  was 
about;  but  he  ain't  fergot  there  was  a  diff'runce. 
An'  as  he  don'  git  mad  in  a  year  o'  Sundays,  reason 
was  on  his  side  mos'  prob'bly.  We  was  down  to  the 
foot  o'  the  garding  lookin'  fer  a  brown-thrasher's 
nest  in  the  brush-heap,  him  an'  me ;  an'  I  says,  '  Si 
Martin's  gone  out  West,'   says   I.   An'   he   says, 


104  The  Elder's  People 

'  Glory  go  with  him,'  says  he.  '  I  don't  ever  wanter 
hear  his  name  ag'in,'  says  he.  An'  I  ain't  ever 
heerd  him  speak  that  name  since.  Here 's  Si  Martin 
back  ag'in  to  the  ol'  place,  you  're  a-tellin'  me. 
Lost  his  wife  ?  Only  a  gel  left  ter  keep  house  fer 
him  ?  I  'm  pleased  that  it 's  a  mile  or  more  away 
acrost  the  hills.  But  John  '11  hev  to  pass  the  bread  an' 
wine  to  him,  ef  he  comes  ter  meetin',  an'  I  do'  know 
how  he  '11  do  it !  An'  that 's  a  fac' !  " 

"  P'r'aps  they  '11  go  to  chapel  over  there,"  said 
the  resourceful  Phoebe. 

"  Hope  to  goodness  !  "  said  Mrs.  Somers,  clapping 
the  flour  off  her  hands.  "  There !  You  stay  to  supper, 
Phoebe,  an'  see  ef  this  rule  ain't  as  good  as  youm." 

"  Not  ter-night ;  I  'm  obleeged  t'  ye,"  said  Phoebe, 
whose  mind's  eye  saw  further  openings  for  her  views 
in  other  places. 

It  was  Mrs.  Somers's  proud  but  silent  boast  that 
her  kitchen  floor  was  as  white  as  the  tops  of  her 
tables,  and  its  yellow  walls  unspotted.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  cheerfulness  of  all  that  whiteness  and  bright- 
ness and  of  her  own  large,  fair  personality  that 
made  Deacon  Somers  naturally  reflect  it.  But,  as 
his  wife  had  said,  he  was  a  pleasant  person  about 
the  house,  and  it  was  greatly  to  her  surprise  that 
her  husband  took  his  seat  at  the  supper  table  with- 
out a  word  that  night,  and  helped  himself  to  the 
creamed  codfish  and  baked  potatoes  without  waiting 
on  either  his  wife  or  the  boys. 


John-a- Dreams  105 

"  Wy,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  "  where  's  your 
manners ! "  And  at  that  he  helped  the  others  me- 
chanically, wasting  no  words ;  and  for  a  brief  time 
a  visible  cloud  settled  over  the  table. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  irrepressible  Bud, 
who  exclaimed,  between  mouthfuls,  "  They  say  Mr. 
Si  Martin 's  come  back  to  the  old  place." 

"I'm  willin',"  said  his  father,  without  looking 
up. 

"It  don't  reely  sound  as  though  you  was,"  said 
his  wife. 

The  man  could  have  given  her  a  glance  that 
would  have  finished  her  happiness  for  this  life.  But 
he  did  n't.  For  how  could  you  tell  your  wife  that 
you  hated  another  man  because  he  won  away  from 
you  the  girl  you  meant  to  marry!  Especially  when 
your  wife  was  as  precious  to  you  as  your  heart's 
blood.  The  girl  had  died,  and  so  had  her  children, 
all  but  the  last,  and  it  did  not  signify  now  a  tear's 
worth  to  him ;  but  all  the  same  he  never  wanted  to 
see  or  hear  of  Si  Martin  again. 

The  soft  June  night  with  its  starshine  and  shad- 
ows and  flower  scents  cast  its  soothing  spell  over 
him  and  his  irate  mood  of  recollection,  and  when 
his  wife  came  and  sat  beside  him  on  the  door-stone 
he  slipped  his  arm  over  her  shoulder.  "  I  don' 
want  no  better  wife  'an  you  be,  Elviry,"  he  said. 

"My  gracious,  John,  I  sh'd  think  you'd  b'en 
a-questionin'  of  it !  " 


106  The  Elder's  People 

*' Somehow  the  smell  o'  them  syringys  fetched 
back  the  nights  w'en  I  went  courtin',  an'  your  aunt 
Lizy  slyed  along  behind  the  bushes." 

"  Poor  Aunt  Lizy  !  " 

"  'T  warn't  no  sign  you  was  goin'  to  be  throwed 
over  'cause  Uncle  Jed  throwed  her.  She  suspicioned 
the  hull  fambly,  an'  hindered  us  consider'ble.  But  she 
could  n't  hinder  the  summer  evenin's,  an'  the  smell 
o'  the  grass  that  was  down,  an'  the  little  bird  a-stir- 
rin'  in  the  nest  an'  sort  o'  complainin'  on  us.  She 
did  n't  hinder  that  wind  that  come  bio  win'  out  o'  the 
dark,  full  o'  sweetness,  an'  blowed  away  into  nowhere, 
an'  made  us  feel  as  though  it  come  from  the  land  o' 
pure  delight  in  the  hymn  —  su'thin'  about  that  dark 
nowhere  that  was  what  you  may  call  a  sweet  trou- 
ble—  made  you  feel  sort  o'  glad,  an'  sorry  too." 

Mrs.  Somers  sighed.  "  'T  was  pleasant,"  she  said. 
"  Seems  as  ef  sech  times  had  orter  last.  They  go  so 
quick  we  don't  half  sense  'em.  But  tliere  —  we're 
pretty  happy  as  we  be." 

"We  'd  b'en  happier  ef  Bud  had  n't  b'en  a  boy." 

"Bud's  the  best  boy — "  cried  the  indignant 
mother. 

"  He  might  have  b'en  the  best  gel,  and  anyways, 
I  'd  'a'  liked  a  gel  about.  Sort  o'  bright  an'  tender 
like  the  sweetbriers  growin'  beside  the  rocks  in  the 
pastur'  'ith  their  little  sweet  blows.  Yes,  I  'd  'a' 
liked  a  darter.  Wy,  it 's  awful,  Elvir}^,  to  grow 
old  an'  not  have  a  darter  tu  close  yer  eyes." 


John-a- Dreams  107 

"How  you  dream,  John!  S 'pose  a  tree  fell  on 
ye  in  the  woods.  Ef  you  hedten  darters  they  would  n't 
be  there  to  close  yer  eyes." 

"I  ain't  ast  fer  ten  darters." 

"  There  '11  be  darters-in-law  bime-by,  prob'bly." 

"  In-law !  "  he  replied,  with  scorn.  "  What 's  that 
beside  your  own  ?  That  are  breath  an'  life  to  ye. 
That  looks  the  way  you  'd  think  angels  'd  look." 

"  I  do'  know  's  I  ever  thinked  how  they  looked." 

"  That  looks  the  way  you  useter  w'en  you  was  a 
gel,  Elviry." 

"W'en  Rufe  an'  Bud  fetches  their  wives  home, 
we  '11  be  pleased,  father." 

"That's  a  long  wait.  Rufe  ain't  half  grown 
yet." 

"He  's  five  feet  twelve  inches,  John!  " 

"  Sho !  Ye  don't  say !  Taller  'n  Bildad,  ain't  he  ? 
Where 's  my  eyes  b'en  ?  '  Fly  fast  around,  ye  wheels 
o'  time,' "  he  sang.  "  There 's  them  consamed 
whip-po'-wills  beginnin' !  One  whip-po'-will  in  the 
dark  is  heart-breakin',  's  you  may  say  —  sweet- 
heart breakin'.  But  a  swarm  on  'em's  wuss  'n  hor- 
nets. Le's  go  in."  And  he  threw  up  his  arms  and 
stretched  his  great  muscles  for  slumber  as  if  he  were 
some  one  else  than  a  dreamer  in  the  dusk. 

The  many  mows  were  hea\y  with  their  fragrant 
hay — for  their  owner's  idle  fancies  did  not  hinder 
his  working  like  a  giant  in  working-hours,  and  he 


108  The  Elder's  People 

was  a  forehanded  man.  The  thunder-storms  came 
and  went ;  the  summer  mornings  were  clear  skies 
full  of  heaven,  or  green  and  gray  and  silver  mists 
and  rain  ;  the  world  was  fair,  and  life  went  well  with 
Deacon  Somers,  and  he  was  happy,  except  for  that 
slight  mist  of  melancholy  which  seems  to  be  the  com- 
plement of  joy. 

"  Kind  o*  undertow,"  he  said  of  it,  "  as  the  years 
go  on,  puUin'  ye  to  the  grave." 

"I  won't  hear  any  sech  talk!  "  said  Mrs.  Somers. 
"  Undertow,  an'  graves,  an'  you  in  the  prime  o'  life, 
'ith  your  barns  bustin',  an'  Bud  'ith  the  prize  to  the 
'cademy,  an'  Rufe  a-clerkin'  an'  layin'  by  an'  likely 
to  git  the  store  to  the  village  —  " 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop  !  "  her  husband  cried.  "  You  're 
makin'  out  sech  a  heap  o'  blessin's,  I  '11  hev  ter  pull 
down  my  bams  an'  build  bigger !  " 

"  Sech  talk 's  jes'  like  lightnin'-rods  to  call  the 
lightnin'  down  on  your  head.  It 's  a-temptin'  Prov- 
erdence." 

"  What  to  ?  You  think  Proverdence  's  that  sort  ? 
Ain't  you  'shamed  ?  " 

But  now,  out  on  the  quaking  heath  where  the 
accumulation  of  centuries  of  drift  and  leaf  and  moss 
had  made  a  floor  above  the  lake,  through  which 
here  and  there  spurted  a  slight  crystal  fountain,  the 
blueberries  were  ripe  with  pale-blue  bloom  over  their 
purple  lusciousness ;  and  half  the  village  were  mak- 
ing their  summer  holiday  there,  raking  the  bounti- 


John-a- Dreams  109 

ful  harvest  into  bag  and  basket,  lads  and  lassies,  old 
and  young. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Somers  to  her  husband, 
who  was  gathering  the  berries,  as  he  did  everything 
else,  without  staying  to  breathe,  with  a  notion  that 
the  ordaining  powers  had  something  else  and  un- 
known for  him  to  do,  "the  world  ain't  goin'  ter 
come  ter  an  eend  ter-night,  and  I  \t  got  all  I  can 
put  up  for  winter.  So  you  go  lay  down  on  the  bank, 
and  I  '11  visit  'ith  Phoebe  Ann  some  o'  the  folks  I 
^ ain't  seen  sence  last  benyHn'." 

"  There 's  them  I  ain't  seen  sence  Bates  was  hung," 
he  replied,  "  an'  don'  wanter  till  he's  hung  ag'in! " 

"  That  ain't  like  you,  father.  W'y,  'tain't  Chris- 
tian !  " 

"You  don't  b'lieve  in  ghosts,  do  you,  Elviry? 
Wal,  I  seen  a  ghost." 

"  The  sun 's  been  reel  hot  on  your  head,  father. 
You  go  lay  down." 

It  was  always  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  great 
neighborhood  gathering  to  Deacon  Somers  when, 
duty  done,  he  lay  beneath  a  high-branching  tree, 
and  looked  up  through  the  interlacing  boughs  and 
felt  himself  a  part  of  the  shining  life  there,  of  the 
glints  of  blue  and  sun  and  darting  wings ;  and  his 
vague  dreams  were  pleasant. 

But  to-day  he  did  not  dream.  He  had  seen  a 
ghost.  He  had  seen  Si  Martin,  pale,  thin,  downcast; 
although  the  wreck,  yet  the  wreck  of  a  certain  beauty; 


110  The  Elder's  People 

plainly  a  man  who  had  come  home  to  die,  and  to 
die  soon.  Somehow  it  was  painful  to  John  Somers 
that  he  hated  that  man.  He  slept  at  last,  however; 
and  it  was  between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  more 
like  pleasant  dreaming,  that  he  was  conscious  of  some 
one  like  a  blessed  spirit,  he  would  have  said,  or  per- 
haps a  young  girl,  perhaps  that  which  might  have 
been  one's  daughter,  fading  out  of  sight  then ;  pos- 
sibly, indeed,  some  one  he  had  seen  during  the  day 
recurring  to  memory  in  that  border- land  between 
sleeping  and  waking.  It  almost  offset  the  disagree- 
able feeling  with  which  he  had  fallen  asleep.  That 
night  at  home  he  could  almost  have  wished  some 
one  would  speak  of  Si  Martin.  But  no  one  did. 

John  Somers  had  his  rowen  in  from  the  fields 
where  he  had  not  turned  in  his  cattle  to  browse;  his 
apples  lay  in  red  and  juicy  mounds;  and  the  smell 
of  the  cider-mill  was  abroad  in  the  land. 

"  You  ain't  gotter  go  back  to  the  store  ter-night, 
be  ye,  Rufy  ? "  said  Mrs.  Somers  to  her  son,  who 
had  been  at  home  to  help  in  the  apple-picking. 

*"'  Not  to  the  store  —  " 

"Oh,  Rufy!  Where  then?" 

"  Mother ! "  the  young  man  burst  out  impetu- 
ously.  "She's  as  sweet  as  the  wild  roses  — " 

"  That  all  ?  "  And  Mrs.  Somers  made  a  very  un- 
necessary rattling  of  the  milk-pans. 

"  She's  as  good  as  —  as  —  "  he  paused,  thinking 


J ohn-a- Dreams  111 

what  there  might  be  with  which  to  compare  his 
Lois. 

"Well?" 

"  As  you,  mother !  I  don't  know  though,  if  any- 
body ever  was  as  good  as  you,"  he  said  then,  a 
loyal  pride  taking  the  place  of  his  shamefacedness. 

"  My  gracious,  if  she  ain't  no  better  'n  I  be !  " 

Mrs.  Somers  put  away  the  milk  and  came  and 
sat  beside  her  boy  on  half  of  the  millstone  that  made 
the  step  of  the  back  door.  There  was  a  pang  in  the 
mother's  heart.  This  was  giving  away  her  boy,  her 
first-bom.  But  there  came  a  thrill  of  joy,  too,  over 
her  boy's  happiness,  of  unrecognized  pride  that  an- 
other woman  found  him  all  that  she  did.  But  still 
she  knew  that  the  husband  follows  the  wife  into  her 
family,  and  it  cannot  be  helped,  and  the  tears  came 
quickly  to  her  eyes,  unused  to  tears. 

"  She 's  a  lonesome  little  thing,"  he  said.  "  No 
mother,  no  sisters." 

"  That 's  good  !  "  suddenly  cried  a  great  wave  of 
relief  in  the  mother's  heart.  She  might  keep  her  boy, 
after  all.  "  The  poor  little  thin' !  "  she  said  aloud 
with  just  as  warm  a  wave.  "  She  shall  be  my  own 
child." 

"  Oh,  I  was  cert' in  you  'd  feel  so,  mother  !  But 
—  but  —  mother!"  —  and  he  hid  his  face  on  his 
knees —  "  she  's  Martin's  Lois  !" 

"  Oh,  Rufy  !  Oh  !  "  —  she  waited  a  moment  to 
recover  from  the  blow  —  "  oh,  it  can't  never  be !  " 


1 1 2  The  Elder's  People 

"It'sgoin' terbe!" 

*'  It  '11  break  his  heart !  Your  father  's  —  " 

"  He 's  allers  bemoanin'  that  Bud  ain't  a  darter. 
Here's  a  darter  for  him.  An'  Bud  ain't  seen  the 
day  he  —  " 

'^  'T  ain't  helpin'  Lois,  ter  run  down  Bud.  Bud  's 
a  good  boy,"  said  his  mother.  "  He  's  reel  tender  of 
his  mother,  an'  he  thinks  the  sun  could  n't  rise  'ith- 
out  his  father." 

"  Bud  'd  like  her  first-rate.   So  'd  you,  mother." 

"  I  ain't  a  doubt  of  it.  So  'd  your  father,  mos' 
prob'bly,  ef  he  did  n't  know.  I  declare  I  'm  reel  dis- 
tressed." 

"Mother!  Ain't  it  too  bad!  An'  she's  —  she's 
jes'  —  she's  jes' —  Oh,  you'd  say —  She  ain't  a 
bit  like  him.  He  sez  she  's  her  mother  all  over." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Mrs.  Somers.  "  She  was  a 
pretty  creetur,"  she  added.  "  But,  there,  she  had  n't 
no  faculty.  Slack  !  " 

"  Lois  ain't.  You  'd  orter  see." 

"  Oh,  Rufy,  this  is  trouble.  You  sure  you  can't 
git  over  it  ?  " 

"  Git  over  it !  Never  till  the  last  breath  I  draw. 
Nor  then,  neither.  You  do'  know  me,  mother.  You 
do'  know  her.^^ 

"  Wal,  I  s'pose  I  shall." 

Mrs.  Somers  carried  a  heavy  heart  to  bed  that 
night.  Her  handsome,  steadfast  boy!  Her  husband 
with  his  one  bitterness !  The  girl  who  was  to  rob  her 


J oh?i-a- Dreams  113 

of  her  boy — child  of  that  other  woman,  too!  She 
turned  her  pillow  again  and  again.  "  I  never  could 
sleep  with  the  moon  in  the  room,"  she  said,  as  she  saw 
the  beams  glancing  on  the  bare  sprays  at  the  window, 
dancing  like  witches  in  the  wind.  And  then  the  soft 
glow  filling  the  room  and  working  some  magic  with 
John  Somers's  sleep,  he  opened  his  mouth  and  be- 
gan to  sing  —  to  sing  as  a  sleepy  child  sings  to  itself 
—  hardly  more  than  a  tuneful  murmur,  a  measured 
breath  —  an  old  h)Tnn  they  had  learned  at  singing- 
school  together.  "Land  o'  Dreams!"  sighed  Mrs. 
Somers.  "  He  's  in  it,  awake  or  not.  The  reel  thin's 
can't  hurt  him  much.  It 's  me  that  senses  'em.  To 
have  him  carin'  fer  that  gel  for  her  mother's  sake  ; 
that 's  w'at  't  will  come  to.  An'  me  to  see  it  an'  feel 
it.  Or  else  it 's  to  make  my  poor  Rufy  miser'ble  all 
his  endurin'  days.  Oh,  there  ain't  no  ch'ice  about 
it !  "  And  when  at  last  she  dropped  asleep  it  was  onlv 
to  be  haunted  by  a  face  she  did  not  quite  make  out, 
a  disappearing,  phantom  face,  perhaps  that  of  Si 
Martin's  wife  whom  she  had  never  seen,  perhaps 
that  of  this  unknown  girl,  dim  and  uncertain ;  and 
even  in  her  sleep  she  was  conscious  of  saying:  "Lord 
o'  Light,  I  'm  gittin'  notional  as  father." 

But  her  rye-cakes  in  the  morning  were  as  pecul- 
iarly well  baked  as  her  potatoes  were,  her  ham  was 
rich  and  tender,  her  pancakes  were  as  golden  brown 
as  the  maple  syrup  poured  over  them,  and  there  was 
no  molasses  and  milk  boiled  in  her  coffee,  but  the 


1 14  The  Elder's  People 

clear  stream  ran  upon  cream  that  became  liquid  am- 
ber. For,  as  a  mother  indulges  her  defective  child, 
she  felt  she  must  give  this  man  of  dreams  and  fancies 
every  comfort  she  could  devise;  and  the  fact  that 
she  often  enjoyed  his  dreams  and  fancies,  and  that  he 
had  been  able  in  spite  of  them  to  make  good  pro- 
vision for  his  family,  so  that  she  never  had  to  boil 
the  coffee  over,  did  not  change  her  feeling  that  his 
temperament  was  a  weakness. 

The  summer,  with  all  its  moons  riding  low  above 
the  woods,  had  flown  away  before  Mrs.  Somers,  in 
her  divided  mind  and  heart,  could  bring  herself  to  act. 
She  might  not  have  been  able  to  do  so  at  all  but  for 
a  sentence  of  the  Elder's  that  kept  ringing  in  her  ears 
like  a  bell.  "Evil  is  to  overcome.  The  soul  grows 
through  struggle."  Certainly  her  feeling  about  the 
girl  Si  Martin  married  was  evil  —  she  to  be  jealous 
of  a  dead  woman  ! 

But  one  day,  after  many  private  interviews  in 
the  dairy,  in  the  pantry,  returning  from  evening 
meeting,  or  when  her  son  came  for  her  at  Phoebe 
Ann  Ruggles's,  Mrs.  Somers  took  heart  of  grace. 
"I'll  do  it!"   she  said.    "I'll  do  it,  Rufy,  ter- 


morrer." 


"  Father,"  her  voice  trembling,  while  on  the  next 
morning,  with  a  towel  about  his  neck  and  a  sheet 
spread  on  the  floor,  she  was  cutting  Deacon  Somers's 
hair —  "  father,  did  you  know  that  Rufus  was  think- 
in'  o'  gittin'  married  ?  "  she  said. 


J ohn-a- Dreams  115 

"  What !  "  cried  her  husband.  "  What  say  ?  Rufus  ? 
What  you  talkin'  about !  " 

"  Rufus.  And  the  girl  he  is  engaged  to  marry." 

Rufus's  father  wheeled  about,  to  the  imminent 
danger  of  his  eyes  from  the  points  of  the  open  scissors. 
"  What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  —  Why,  El- 
vir)^,  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  w'at  I  say,  father." 

"  Rufus  ?  Why,  you  can't !  It 's  —  it 's  redic'lous. 
He  ain't  growed  up.  He 's  —  he  's  —  " 

"Now,  father,  't ain't  no  use  to  sputter  this  way. 
You  set  still !  How  can  I  cut  'ith  you  dancin'  round 
like  a  teetotum  ?  Rufus  is  a  man  —  " 

"  A  man !  He  ain't  never  hed  a  freedom  suit." 

"  That 's  because  you  ain't  giv'  it  to  him.  He 
can  look  out  fer  himself  and  a  wife  too.  They  think 
everythin'  of  him  to  the  store,  an'  they  '11  take  him 
in  pardner  soon 's  he 's  got  his  fust  thousand  in 
hand." 

"  Why  don't  he  tell  me  sech  thin's  ? " 

"  He 's  scairt  to." 

'*  Wal  —  he'd  better  be  savin'  'stid  o'  marryin'." 

"He's  got  a  very  well-to-do  father." 

"Now,  Elviry  — " 

"  I  know,  John,"  she  said,  snipping  a  little  care- 
fully lest  she  snipped  his  ear  —  and  served  him  right, 
as  her  impatient  thought  ran.  "Course  you  don't 
wanter  spile  the  boy  —  " 

"  Boy !  You  said  he  was  a  man." 


1 16  The  Elder's  People 

"  But  when  boy  or  man  is  all  right  you  wanter 
help  —  " 

"I  do'  know'sldo." 

*'/  know  you  do.  You'll  git  cut  ef  you  don't  set 
still,  father!" 

"Our  Rufe  with  a  gel!  Why,  it's  only  the  other 
day  he  was  in  tiers.  I  can  see  him  now  —  the  pretty 
scamp !  You  'd  cut  his  hair,  and  he  thought  he  was 
a  man  then  —  " 

"  An'  mos'  killed  me,  too  —  them  curls  ! " 

"  His  face  was  all  ros'b'ry  juice,  an'  he  took  a 
berry  he  was  jes'  puttin'  'tween  his  lips  an'  giv'  it  to 


me." 


"An'  you  didn't  take  it,  I'll  be  boun'." 

"Wal,  no,  I  didn't." 

"I  did.  Sweet  little  lips." 

"Anyways,  now,  I  can't  seem  to  take  it  in.  I 
don't  b'lieve  I  b'lieve  it." 

"  Wal,  seein'  's  b'lievin',"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  fin- 
ishing her  clipping.  "An'  he  's  goin'  to  fetch  her  here 
to  supper  to-night.  So  you  '11  see  her.  I  'm  goin'  ter 
lay  a  fire  in  the  keepin'-room." 

Deacon  Somers  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of  a 
nuptial  mass;  but  a  fire  in  the  keeping-room  seemed 
to  invest  Rufe's  love-affair  with  a  kindred  solem- 
nit}^  "  I  snum !  "  he  said.  And  he  stared  at  his  wife 
as  if  he  had  alighted  on  another  planet  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  her  there.  "Look  here,"  he  said, 
presently.  "You  seen  her?  No?  Who  is  she?  And 


John-a-Dreams  117 

how  'd  you  know  we  're  goin'  ter  be  pleased  with 
her  ?  S'pose  we  shouldn't  think  she  was  jes'  the  one  ? 
We  gotter  pertend  it 's  all  right  ?  This  havin'  strange 
folks  come  inter  the  fam'bly —  Wy,  mother,  it  's 
upset  all  my  cal'lations!  " 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  dream  the  boys  was  goin'  ter 
marr\'  ?  " 

"When  we  was  old,  maybe.  But —  The  boys? 
You  don't  mean  that  Bud  —  " 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  laughing  now.  "I  don't 
mean  Bud." 

"I  declare  I'm  all  nervoused  up." 

All  that  day — it  was  a  gray  day,  with  snow 
on  the  ground  and  storm  in  the  air :  a  boding  dav, 
he  called  it  —  while  he  was  doing  his  chores  in  the 
barn  and  the  wood-house,  the  masterly  cat  purring 
about  his  feet,  the  thought  of  the  change  hung  round 
him  like  a  pestering  honeybee;  sweet,  but  with  a 
sting.  More  than  once  he  made  an  errand  into  the 
kitchen.  "Mother,"  he  said,  "you  sure  it 's  so  ?  " 
And  by  the  early  dusk,  when  he  had  finished  his 
tasks,  he  was  half  bewildered.  "My  mind's  all 
catt)^-comered,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Here  I  've  giv' 
shorts  to  Grip,  and  I  've  sold  the  milch-cow  when  I 
meant  ter  sell  the  farrer.  'Twas  as  good  a  bargain, 
though,  as  ever  I  made.  So  it  'sail  right.  I  do'  know  's 
I'll  mention  it  to  mother  —  right  off.  She  sort  o' 
sot  by  Brindle."  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  after- 
noon as  if  night  would  never  come. 


118  The  Elder*  s  People 

"No,  father,  you  ain't  goin'  to  fix  up  one  speck. 
She 's  gotter  take  us  jes'  's  we  be,"  said  Mrs.  Som- 
ers,  when  he  suggested  his  Sunday  coat. 

"  I  'm  goin'  ter  hev  a  clean  shirt  and  a  dickey,  an' 
my  black  stock,  mother,  ef  I  die  nex'  minute !  "  he 
replied.  "An'  you  'd  look  better  'ith  your  best  gown 
on.  Wen  you  wear  your  alpaca,  and  your  velvet 
bunnet  'ith  the  feather,  there  ain't  a  more  personable 
woman  this  side — " 

*' Would  you  like  ter  hev  me  dishin'  up  supper 
in  a  velvet  bunnit  an'  feather  ? " 

"  I  'd  like  you  anyways,  Elviry." 

"  There,  there,  there,  do  go  an'  fix  up,  an'  git  it 
over ! " 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  reappearing  presently  in  the 
kitchen,  an  arrangement  for  his  throat  in  either  hand, 
"  would  you  wear  this  stock  or  that  cravat  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  goodness,  John !  "  she  said,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Why,  mother,  I  thought  you  'd  like  ter  say." 

"  I  should  think  't  was  you  instid  o'  Rufe." 

"  'T  is  me !  It 's  me  in  my  place." 

"  So  it  is,  so  it  is,"  she  said.  "  I  'd  wear  the  cra- 
vat. The  blue  allers  sets  off  your  eyes." 

"  I  thought  you  'd  think  so,"  he  said,  triumphantly. 
"  Blue  that 's  the  color  of  heaven  must  give  a  pleas- 
ant idee,"  and  he  returned  to  the  bedroom. 

"  Dear,  dear! "  said  his  wife.  "  And  it 's  sech  a 
little  time  ago  't  was  him  an'  me.  An'  now  —  oh,  I 


J ohn-a- Dreams  119 

s'pose  it's  wicked,  I  do'  know  —  but  I  ain't  so  much 
acquainted  with  the  other  place,  and  I  wisht  we 
stayed  here  mos'  forever  —  an'  was  young."  And 
then  there  came  a  jangle  of  bells,  and  she  picked  up 
the  wick  of  the  lamp  and  hurried  to  open  the  door, 
and  the  expected  guest  sprang  from  the  pung  to  the 
door-stone  —  the  sweeping  of  which  had  been  for- 
gotten —  and  fell  into  Mrs.  Somers's  arms. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  to  !  "  cried  a  voice  of  silver. 
"  I  missed  my  step.  Now  I  've  got  your  floor  all 
over  snow ! " 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind !  That 's  clean  dirt." 

"Oh,  I  '11  sweep  it  out  soon  's  I  git  this  knot  un- 
tied. Oh,  you  're  Rufe's  mother  !  " 

And  her  voice  seemed  to  Mrs.  Somers  a  music  she 
had  always  been  listening  for. 

"  An'  you  are  goin'  to  be  his  wife." 

"  An'  we  '11  have  to  love  each  other  ver^^  much, 
'count  o'  him."  And  the  next  instant  the  girl's  cold 
face  was  pressed  against  Mrs.  Somers's  burning 
cheek. 

And  with  that  the  bedroom  door  opened  for  Dea- 
con Somers,  and  the  girl  w  ithdrew  and  stood  up  be- 
fore him  like  a  young  birch  tree,  straight  and  fair,  and 
shining  with  her  blond  hair,  her  blue  eyes,  her  glit- 
tering teeth,  and  the  rose  of  the  storm  and  wind  not 
yet  faded  from  her  look,  and  he  stood  transfixed. 

But  he  stood  so  only  for  a  moment.  He  did  not 
know  quite  what  it  was,  what  old  emotion,  what  old 


120  The  Elder's  People 

memory,  swept  through  him;  but  it  was  pleasant. 
Pleasant  ?  It  was  delightful.  "  You  pretty  creetur !  " 
he  exclaimed. 

She  took  a  step  toward  him,  holding  out  her  be- 
seeching hands. 

"Mother!  "  he  cried.  "Mother,  I  've  found  her. 
I  've  found  my  little  darter !  " 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Somers's  heart  burned ;  but  if  it  did 
she  did  not  betray  it.   "  She  is  mine,  too  !  "  she  said. 

"Oh,  how  kind  you  are!  "  cried  Lois.  "I  knew 
Rufe's  father  an'  mother  would  be  jes'  like  this  !  " 

And  then  Rufus  came  bustling  in,  rudd}^,  proud, 
happy  but  for  the  shadow  of  constraint ;  and  pres- 
ently the  tablecloth  was  to  be  shaken  out,  and  Lois 
sprang  to  help. 

"  It 's  my  own  weave,"  remarked  Mrs.  Somers. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  "  exclaimed  Lois,  brushing 
back  her  pretty,  disordered  curls.  "I  allers  thought 
't  would  be  wonderful  to  weave." 

"  'T  was  simple  enough,"  Mrs.  Somers  replied, 
deprecatingly.  "  I  '11  show  ye  some  day.  The  old 
loom  's  up-garret.  I  wove  the  first  gownd  Rufus  ever 
had  on  it.  We  don't  do  it  now.  It 's  so  cheap  to 
buy  —  but  my  !  there  's  no  life  in  'em.  They  don't 


wear." 


Supper  was  ready  presently. 
"Here,  Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Somers.  "Here's  your 
place;  by  me." 

"No,  no,"  said  her  husband,  bringing  his  hand 


John-a- Dreams  121 

down  on  the  table.  "  My  darter's  place  is  here. 
She  '11  set  'tween  me  and  Rufe." 

Bud  looked  at  her  appealingly. 

"  I  '11  set  here,  I  guess,"  she  said,  delicately. 

"  Wal,  that 's  nex'  me,  t'  other  side."  And  the 
blessing  asked,  in  its  unusual  fervor,  was  more  like 
a  thanksgiving. 

"  You  had  your  peach  preserves  a-puppus,  I  s'pose, 
mother,"  he  said,  following  his  wife  into  the  pantry, 
when  they  rose  from  the  table.  "  Peaches  to  peaches. 
An'  Rufus  got  his'n.  W'y,  I  ain't  seen  nothin'  like 
her  sence  I  went  courtin'  you.  She  's  a  piece  o'  blue 
sky  an'  sunshine.  Wen  she  smiles  you  feel  's  ef  the 
world  was  jes'  made.  Rufe  's  showed  reel  good  taste, 
ain't  he,  mother  ? " 

^'Splendid!" 

"  They  've  gone  inter  the  keepin'-room.  Fire 
good  there  ?   I  s'pose  't  won't  do  to  go  there,  too  ?  " 

"JohnSomers,  ain't  you  no  sense  nor  rekerlec- 
tion  ?  " 

"  Wal,  it 's  kind  o'  dreary  a-settin'  here  an'  jes' 
hearin'  the  wind  blow.  It 's  a  dretfle  homesick 
sound." 

"What  you  homesick  for,  father?  " 

But  he  began  to  sing  ''Jerusalem,  my  Happy 
Home,"  in  a  voice  that  had  not  yet  lost  its  sweet 
sonority ;  and  very  soon  Lois  came  out,  Rufe  fol- 
lowing. 

"  I  do  love  to  sing,"  she  said. 


122  The  Elder* s  People 

'^  That  finishes  it !  "  John  Somers  cried,  as  Lois 
joined  in  and  took  the  air.  "A  live  flute  in  the 
house !  '* 

Rufus  went  out  to  harness  and  bring  the  horse  to 
the  door.  The  girl  had  her  red  hood  on,  and  was 
tying  her  big  cloak  when  he  came  in.  "Father,'^  he 
said,  taking  Lois's  hand,  "  P'r'aps  you  don't  know 
that  this  is  Mr.  Si  Martin's  daughter." 

If  in  the  next  moment  of  dreadful  silence  John 
Somers  turned  white,  his  wife  was  whiter  yet ;  and 
even  Bud's  breath  hung  suspended.  Then  all  at  once 
a  great  smile  broke  over  his  face;  he  never  told  his 
wife  why,  if  he  fairly  knew  himself;  and  he  took 
the  girl  in  his  arms. 

It  required,  in  Deacon  Somers's  opinion,  both 
Rufe  and  his  father  to  get  the  girl  home  in  the 
storm,  and  it  was  midnight  when  they  returned. 

"  Mother,"  said  Deacon  Somers,  as  he  toasted  his 
feet,  with  a  sense  of  well-being  in  the  warmth,  in 
the  spiced  sangaree  his  wife  mixed  for  him,  in  the 
ruddy  shadows  of  the  fire  dancing  about  the  room, 
"  I  like  to  hear  a  storm  roarin'  on  outside,  w'en  I  'm 
all  housed  an'  happy.  Poor  Si  Martin !  I  would  n't 
like  to  die  an'  go  out  on  sech  a  gale.  He  ain't  long  to 
live.  I  told  him  to-night  —  you  ain't  got  no  gretch 
agin'  him,  have  you,  mother  ?  It 's  wrong  to  keep  a 
gretch;  it  is,  cert' in.  I  hope  you  ain't.  I  told  Rufe 
ter  bring  Si  over  here  ter  die  comfor'ble — an'  the 
gel  —  Lois.    I  don'  s'pose  any  o'  the  angels  was 


John-a- Dreams  123 

ever  called  Lois  ?  You  don^t  mind  ?  It  '11  be  more 
work  —  some  —  but  she'll  help  out.  I  feel  to  be 
thankful.  I  got  my  youth  back,  I  got  the  very  full- 
ness o'  my  dreams,  got  my  little  darter  an'  my  wife; 
and  I  'm  glad  Bud 's  a  boy  !  "  And  while  the  storm 
swept  its  snowflakes  by  the  window,  like  sparks  of 
fire,  Deacon  Somers  was  on  his  knees,  with  his  wife 
beside  him. 


MISS  MAHALA'S  MIRACLE 


VI 

Mss  Mahala's  Miracle 

MOONLIGHT  gave  the  Deacon's  wife  such 
dreams  and  illusions  that  she  shut  it  out 
of  her  bedroom,  although  she  remembered  summer 
nights  when  she  was  younger  and  had  loved  to  see 
a  great  moon  hanging  on  balanced  wings,  like  some 
mother  creature  brooding  over  the  earth.  She  was 
suddenly  wide  awake  with  surprise,  then,  to  find  the 
light  pouring  in,  and  the  Deacon  sitting  in  it,  his 
gray  hair  erect  and  shining  like  a  crown,  as  he  went 
over  some  papers,  tr}4ng  to  decipher  them  in  the 
gleam,  and  also  trying  to  understand  how  two  and 
two  should  make  three  instead  of  five,  and  to  make 
out  if  by  possibility  he  did  not  owe  the  parish  so 
much  as  he  had  feared. 

At  her  startled  exclamation  he  closed  the  shutter 
and  crept  back  to  his  pillow. 

To  this  wife  her  husband  was  not  only  the  best 
and  first  of  men,  but  with  so  much  of  the  ethereal 
in  his  composition  that  he  seemed  not  so  entirely 
human  as  heavenly.  And  if  miracles  could  be 
wrought  in  these  latter  da}'s,  she  would  have  ex- 
pected him  to  work  them  or  to  have  them  worked 
for  him.  She  had  felt  a  deep  reverence  for  him  since 
the  days  when  she  had  seen  heaven  in  the  fair-haired 


1 2 8  The  Elder's  People 

boy's  eyes  and  its  love  in  his  heart ;  she  had  pre- 
served the  unbounded  pride  in  him  that  she  felt 
when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him ;  and  since  the 
hour  he  became  a  deacon  she  had  never  called  him 
by  his  Christian  name. 

She  was  a  little  creature,  but,  as  a  diamond  holds 
the  concentration  of  light,  she  in  her  energy  was  like 
a  flame  of  fire.  And  while  Deacon  Wabbles  was 
turning  over  the  Elder's  text  in  his  mind  and  ex- 
tracting its  last  honey,  she  was  seeing  to  the  practi- 
cal side  of  things  and  keeping  the  Deacon's  hands 
busy,  wherever  his  thoughts  might  wander.  Yet  there 
were  times  when  she  suffered  a  sad  loneliness  —  in 
the  sunshine  of  those  chill  April  days  that  fill  the 
atmosphere  with  hope,  when  the  Deacon  was  up  in 
the  hills  by  himself  clearing  the  springs,  and  with 
she  knew  not  what  communings;  or  in  rich,  odor- 
ous autumn  days  when  he  tramped  the  swamps, 
elated  with  the  colors  and  the  balms,  singing  his 
thoughts  out  loud  and  clear  —  the  loneliness  any 
woman  marrying  an  angel  might  feel.  She  did  not 
know  how  to  express  her  blind  sensation  of  being 
left  outside  her  husband's  inner  life.  And  nothing 
quite  atoned  for  that.  But  now  and  then  she  hid  her 
few  quick  tears  on  the  shaggy  head  of  old  Laddie,  and 
the  dog  looked  at  her  afterwards  with  wistful  eyes, 
as  if  wondering  at  her  worry  and  assuring  her  he 
could  keep  a  secret. 

"  What 's  troublin'  ye  now  ?  "  she  asked,  laying 


Miss  Mahald's  Miracle  129 

her  ann  over  her  husband,  her  voice  as  tender  as  a 
mother's  —  the  wife  in  her  long  since  become  the 
mother. 

"  It 's  them  accounts,  Drusy.  I  can't  make  'em  gee." 

"  What  accounts  you  mean  ?  " 

"  W'y,  there 's  on'y  mine  an'  the  perrish  funds. 
And  I  can't  make  'em  come  out  to  suit." 

"S'pose/see." 

"  Now,  Drusy,  w'en  /  can't !  I  guess  't  would 
take  one  o'  them  that  counted  times  and  times  in 
Dan'l  ter  make  them  tsvo  thin's  square." 

"Can't  you  count  right,  father?  " 

"'T ain't  countin'.  I  can  count,  same's  a  clock. 
It 's  jes'  here.  There  's  that  yoke  o'  noxen  I  bought. 
An'  the  bit  o'  Ian'  ter  round  out  the  big  rye-field, 
and  one  thin'  and  another.  And  o'  course  I  paid  for 
them  out  'n  my  own  money.  And  my  money  's  all 
gone.  An'  where  's  the  perrish  money  ?  That 's  gone, 


too." 


"Deacon!" 

"  Yes.  That 's  jes'  w'at  's  occurred." 

"  Ain't  you  put  it  somewheers  an'  forgot  ? " 

"  I  've  kep'  it  in  the  little  right-han'  dror  of  the 
sekertary  this  t\vent\^  year  exceptin'  for  now  and 
ag'in.  'T  ain't  likely  I  'd  remove  it.  And  I  ain't !  " 

"  What  has  come  of  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Wisht  }'ou  could  tell  me,  Drusy." 

"  W'y  ain't  you  spoke  of  it  ?  —  I  thinked  you 
was  spendin'  more  'n  was  likely." 


130  The  Elder" s  People 

"  I  could  n't  spen'  more  'n  I  hed." 

"  S'pose  ye  sell  the  steers —  " 

"  Sell  them  steers  ?  W'y,  I  need  'em  !  I  've  needed 
'em  like  sixty  this  ten  year,  an'  you  gimme  no  peace 
till  I  got  'em.  They're  my  proputty,  'lowin'  ther  's  any 
sech  thin'  as  property,  seein'  the  'arth  is  the  Lord's." 

"There's  a  mistake  been  made,  father.  P'r'aps 
you  thought  't  was  your  money  —  " 

*' You  s'pose  I  'm  a  fool,  Drusilla?  Or  a  thief?" 
And  he  sat  up  in  his  righteous  indignation. 

His  wife  drew  him  gently  down  again,  and  held 
him  in  her  arms,  laying  her  head  beside  his  own. 
"There,  there,"  she  said,  "you  go  to  sleep.  Mebbe 
you'll  dream  it  out.  Anyway,  you  kin  see  thin's 
clearer  by  day." 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  ter  see  clear.  It 's  jes'  here. 
I  kind  o'  rekelek  I  put  the  perrish  money  away,  I 
do'  know  where.  And,  anyway,  it  ain't  there.  I  was 
in  hopes  I  could  make  it  out  from  what  I  had,  till 
it  turned  up.  But  I  can't.  An'  now  all  to  wunst 
Elder  an'  Deacon  Hardin'  an'  them  wants  it  for  the 
bell  they're  be'n  lottin'  on  'ith  Miss  Mahaly's help, 
an'  the  fence  roun'  the  buryin'-groun'  —  " 

"  There  ain't  no  need  of  a  fence  there.  Nobody 
can't  get  out ;  an'  there  ain't  nobody  wants  ter  get 
in,  as  I  've  heerd  say." 

"  Cows,"  said  the  Deacon. 

"You  jes'  go  ter  perrish  meetin'  an'  fight  that 
fence!" 


Miss  MaJiala's  Miracle  1 3 1 

"I  have." 

"  Father,  how  long 's  this  be'n  goin'  on  ?  " 
"  Fer  quite  some  w'ile,  Drusy." 
"An'  ye  never    told   me."  And    she    rose    and 
opened  the  shutters.  There  was  no  more  sleep  for 

her. 

"  Wat  the  use  ?  "  he  said,  on  her  return.  "  I  was 
heckled  enough  for  two.  Anybody  that  did  n't  know 
me  'd  say  I  'd  spent  the  perrish  money.  But  I 
could  n't  'a'  done  that  no  ways  in  the  worl',  ye  see." 

"  I  see,"  said  his  wife. 

"  But  Hardin'  won't  see." 

If  the  Deacon  was  unable  to  command  ready 
money,  it  was  because  he  never  could  put  anything 
by  while  others  were  in  want,  and  his  family  felt  his 
least  wish  must  be  gratified  —  certainly  so  righteous 
a  wish.  And  so  his  wife  had  turned  her  decent  gown 
and  re-turned  it,  and  ripped  and  dyed  his  coat,  which 
he  wore  with  a  consciousness  of  being  clothed  fit  for 
the  society  of  skyey  beings;  and  Judith  trimmed 
her  bonnet  over  with  ribbons  the  neighbors  had  had 
time  to  forget,  and  Lauretta  cobbled  her  shoes  for 
Sunday,  and  John  gathered  birds'  eggs  which  he  sold 
to  bad  boys  down  in  Salt  Water. 

"I'dbe'n  meanin',"  said  the  Deacon  sadly,  "ter 
git  ye  a  summer  bunnit,  Drusy.  But  now,  'ith  Har- 
din' a-doubtin'  my  word  —  " 

"Now,  Deacon  Wabbles,  there  ain't  nobody 
a-doubtin'  your  word  !  " 


132  The  Elder" s  People 

"  'T  ain't  jes'  my  word.  It 's  trust  funds,  Drusy. 
An'  they  're  gone.  And  I  ain't  got  enough  o'  my  own 
to  square  up.  If  I  can't  find  'em  —  w'y,  mother, 
them  childem  o'  ourn  '11  come  to  disgrace !  Folks 
'11  p'int  to  'em  an'  say  their  father  —  mother,  I  ain't 
took  any  o'  that  money!  Don't  you  believe  me, 
Drusy  ?  "  And  he  sat  up  in  the  bed  again,  his  gray 
hair  making  a  halo  round  his  head  and  his  tears 
streaming. 

"Believe  ye?"  she  said.  "Ye  poor  angel,  don't 
I  know  ye  could  n't  do  wrong  no  more  'n  a  saint ! 
You  never  said  what  warn't  true  in  your  life.  You 
never  did  a  thing  't  warn't  straight.  If  the  Lord 
loves  a  righteous  man,  he  loves  you." 

"  An'  whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth.  P'r'aps 
I  was  feelin'  's  if  I  couldn't  fall.  Yes,  Drusy." 

"  An'  ye  won't  fall.  You  '11  be  took  care  on, 
father.  The  Lord  can't  spare  you  an'  your  example 
that  way." 

"Mother,  mother,  what  a  comfort  you  are!" 
And  he  lay  back  exhausted,  and  was  asleep  in  a 
twinkling.  And  old  Laddie,  on  his  mat  beside  the 
bed,  beat  taps  with  his  tail,  as  if  satisfied  that  all 
was  right,  even  through  a  little  sob  which  he  rose  to 
inquire  into. 

"  Now  you  look  cheerful,"  said  their  mother  to 
the  girls,  as  they  made  breakfast  ready,  by  the  can- 
dle-light. They  had  waked  in  the  night  and  had 
heard  enough  to  make  it  necessary  to  tell  them  more, 


Miss  Maliald' s  jSI Wade  133 

and  their  pretty  faces  were  swollen  with  crying. 
"  You  put  hot  tea  on  your  eyes.  Father  'd  be  dis- 
tressed ter  see  ye  a-feelin'  so." 

''  Oh,  poor  father,  poor  father  !  "  Judith  sobbed. 
"The  saint  alive,  the  old  saint !  " 

"  It 's  dretfle  !  "  cried  Lauretta.  "  An'  he  the  best 
man  in  meetin' !"  And  her  tears  were  like  sparks 
of  fire. 

"  It 's  jes'  goin'  to  shame  us  ever}'  one  !  "  said 
Johnny.  "  'T  ain't  no  use  bein'  honest  w'en  folks 
suspicions  ye  that  way  !  "  And,  tr\'ing  to  be  calm, 
he  broke  out  cr^'ing  aloud. 

"Folks  ain't  God,"  said  his  mother.  "And  God 
knows  your  father  's  honest  down  to  the  ground." 

"  He  's  honest  up  to  the  sky !  "  said  Judith. 

"  There,"  said  the  mother,  "  the  cakes  are  a  lovely 
brown.  You  'd  better  call  father,  Laurie." 

The  Deacon  ate  his  breakfast  in  silence  when  he 
came.  As  he  finished,  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
stood  up.  "Lord,"  he  said,  lifting  his  wide-open 
eyes  to  the  window,  where  the  sunrise  fl.ame  still  lin- 
gered, "  thou  art  our  refuge  in  all  generations.  Thou 
hast  said,  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  who  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden,  and  I  come.  I  leave  this  trouble 
here.  Let  me  feel  that  an  honest  man  stands  before 
Thee."  And  his  wife  and  his  children  sobbed, 
"  Amen." 

As  for  the  Deacon,  there  was  only  perfect  peace 
on  his  white  face.  He  went  round  and  kissed  his 


1 34  The  Elder's  People 

wife,  a  rare  ceremony.  "Now,"  he  said  brightly, 
"  it 's  a  good  day  for  planting  the  com,  John,  my 
son.  It 's  no  use  a-talking  —  in  this  here  climate  the 
Lord  won't  bless  the  com  that 's  planted  afore  the 
apple  blossoms  sheds  inter  the  hills."  And  he  went 
out  blithely  as  if  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  world. 

"It's  up  to  God,"  said  Johnny,  who  was  reac- 
tionary and  had  been  in  Salt  Water. 

Across  the  woods  the  Elder  was  putting  up  his 
rails  that  a  deer  had  disturbed.  He  had  thought,  as 
he  saw  the  sunrise  while  coming  along,  that  David 
first  sang  the  twenty-fourth  Psalm  when  a  boy  keep- 
ing his  flocks  on  the  hill  at  some  splendid  break  of 
day,  and  he  was  singing  to  a  tune  of  his  own,  "  Lift 
up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates ;  and  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye 
everlasting  doors ;  and  the  King  of  glory  shall  come 
in,"  for  in  this  remote  settlement,  apart  from  the  stir 
of  the  world,  its  complexities  and  distractions,  the 
thought  still  concerned  itself,  as  in  days  past,  with 
the  mighty  things  of  the  unseen.  He  was  brought 
back  to  earth  by  Deacon  Harding's  and  the  tax-col- 
lector's approach,  doubtless  to  talk  concerning  the 
missing  parish  funds.  Well,  if  he  could  give  them 
a  kindlier  feeling,  he  would  be  helping  to  lift  those 
gates. 

"  There  ain't  no  good  o'  hushin'  it  up,"  said 
Deacon  Harding,  after  the  preliminary  conversation ; 
"  truth  will  out.  The  money  was  trusted  to  Deacon 
Wabbles,  and  if  he  can't  perduce  it,  where  is  it  ?  " 


Miss  Mahala's  Miracle  135 


((, 


Oh,  he  will  produce  it  in  time,  I  am  sure,  re- 
plied the  Elder.  "The  Deacon  may  be  a  little  con- 
fused. And  he  's  slow.  He  '11  clear  it  all  up." 

"So  you  said,  Elder,  three  months  ago.  He's 
had  time." 

"  Eyther  he  's  got  the  money,  or  he  's  spent  it," 
said  Cyrus  Thomas,  rattling  the  pennies  in  his  pock- 
ets. "  'T  seems  ter  me  somethin'  'd  orter  be  done. 
It 's  bringin'  reproach  upon  the  meetin'." 

"  Summer 's  coming,"  said  Deacon  Harding, 
"  and  we  need  that  bell.  You  can  see  for  yourself, 
't  would  soun'  pleasant  summer  evenin's,  callin'  ter 
the  house  o'  prayer  an'  biddin'  in  them  that  would  n't 
'a'  come  otherways." 

"  But  that 's  hypothetical.  And  it  is  n't  to  be 
thought  of —  is  it  now  ?  — beside  the  blasting  of  a 
good  man's  name,"  said  the  Elder. 

"  I  ain't  denyin'  he's  led  a  toler'ble  good  life — 
so  fur,"  said  the  tax-collector,  somewhat  awed  by 
the  long  word.  "  But  tentations  comes  to  all  of  us. 
He  got  his  gels  a  seraphine  last  winter.  I  ain't  ever 
felt  called  to  git  Sadie  an  organ." 

"But  he  bought  it  that  Judith  might  better  sing 
her  hymns.  And  don't  you  think  Judith's  voice  in 
the  singing  seats  is  almost  as  well  worth  while  as  the 
sort  of  bell  we  would  be  able  to  buy  ?  " 

"  'T  ain't  the  question,"  said  Deacon  Harding. 
"  An'  't  ain't  the  bell.  It 's  the  princerpul.  If  Dea- 
con Wabbles  has  made  away  with  our  trust  money, 


136  The  Elder's  People 

we  'd  orter  know  it,  and  have  him  dealt  'ith  in 
meetin'." 

''The  Lord  loves  a  merciful  man,"  said  the 
Elder.  "If  the  case  were  reversed  and  either  of  us 
in  straits.  Deacon  Wabbles  would  be  long-suffering. 
I  think  we  'd  better  wait." 

''Wal,"  said  Deacon  Harding,  "mebbe  you're 
right,  Elder.  You  'd  orter  be,  havin'  studied  inter 
aech  thin's  more  'n  us.  Deacon  is  slow,  's  you  say. 
P'r'aps  he  ain't  took  it  all  in  yet.  What  say,  Mr. 
Thomas?  " 

"We've  got  a  duty  ter  the  perrish,"  said  Mr. 
Thomas,  still  rattling  his  pennies.  "  However,  I  'd 
hate  ter  hurt  Mis'  Wabbles's  feelin's.  An',  's  you 
say,  p'r'aps  we  —  we  —  " 

"  Won't  be  too  precipitate,"  said  the  Elder. 

"  Jes'  so.  But,  Elder,  sooner  or  later  that  money's 
gotter  be  'counted  for.  Some  on  it 's  mine  ! " 

The  Elder  was  walking  in  his  wife's  little  garden 
patch  that  evening  while  she  sowed  her  mignonette 
seeds.  "It  is  discouraging,"  he  said.  " It  makes  me 
feel  my  work  idle  and  unblessed  when  two  of  my 
people  are  so  ready  to  destroy  another." 

"  For  my  strength  is  made  perfect  in  weakness," 
said  his  wife  softly. 

"It  is  not  impossible,"  the  Elder  said  presently, 
"  that  while  the  Deacon  was  walking  with  his  head 
in  the  clouds  he  set  his  feet  in  the  bog.  He  is  so  oc- 
cupied in  the  courts  of  heaven  that  he  forgets  the 


Miss  Maliala's  Miracle  137 

things  of  earth."  This  from  the  Elder  !  thought  his 
wife.  "  But  he  was  very  unhappy  when  I  saw  him 
last,  the  poor  good  man  !  "  said  the  Elder.  "  Yet 
his  wife  had  n't  the  first  doubt  all  would  come  right. 
That's  a  great  help.  What  wonderful  things  wives 
are !  And  her  price  is  above  rubies." 

It  was  quite  dusk  when  the  Elder's  wife  rose, 
dusting  the  earth  from  her  fingers.  "Well,"  she 
said,  "  if  that  money  has  been  spent,  I  don't  see  how 
anything  but  a  miracle  can  replace  it." 

"  What  then  ?  "  said  the  Elder,  gazing  at  the  eve- 
ning star,  that  through  the  gently  swaying  branches 
seemed  like  a  great  golden  spirit  winging  its  way 
towards  earth.  "What  then?  Can't  we  think  there 
are  laws  that  are  deeper,  swifter,  subtler,  mightier, 
than  those  we  know,  that  can  produce  what  we  call 
the  miraculous  ?  Miracle  or  no  miracle,  it  stands  to 
reason  that  for  a  man  who  lives  so  near  heaven 
the  heavenly  forces  ought  to  be  engaged."  And  the 
Elder's  prayer  that  night  dealt  with  the  heavenly 
forces  very  pleadingly. 

The  buds  on  the  orchard  boughs  were  like  points 
of  light  against  the  dark  forest  the  next  morning. 
The  rosy  snow  of  apple  blossoms  blew  about;  the 
world  seemed  full  of  hope  and  promise.  The  Eld- 
er's wife  sat  sewing  on  the  porch  with  Miss  Mahala. 
"  Yes,  it  means  a  sight  to  me,"  Miss  Mahala  was 
saying.  "  It  means  longings.  It  means  tears.  Yes,  Mis' 


138  The  Elder's  People 

Perry,  tears,"  glancing  about  anxiously.  "  Elder 
ain't  'roun'  —  fixin'  his  remarks  ?  Talks  'temp'ry, 
now  I  mind.  Fetches  ye  nearer,  mebbe.  Though 
once  in  a  w'ile  a  good  thirteenthly  stirs  ye  up. 
P'ints  ter  dispute." 

Miss  Mahala  had  long  since  become  a  personage 
in  the  Settlement.  She  had  bought  her  small  place 
with  what  was  left  of  her  father's  property,  and  she 
had  sowed  and  threshed  and  grown  brown  as  a  berry 
and  spare  as  a  tree's  stem.  She  sold  eggs,  herbs, 
snake-skins,  curious  fungi;  she  lived  on  next  to 
nothing,  and  she  saved  now  and  then  a  dollar. 
When  she  should  have  saved  a  hundred  dollars,  she 
used  to  think,  she  would  have  a  little  all-sorts  shop. 
She  had  kept  her  money  about  her,  and  in  hot  mid- 
summer she  talked  of  the  deceitfulness  of  riches  and 
longed  to  spend  hers.  "Yes,  in  them  days  I  thought 
I'd  like  ter  run  down  ter  Salt  Water  an'  see  the 
stores,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  I  'd  like  some  preach- 
in',  too  —  't  was  afore  Elder  come.  I  thought  I  'd 
like  to  subscribe  an'  take  the  '  Farmer '  all  to  my- 
self, 'stid  o'  having  it  'ith  the  neighbors,  an'  git- 
tin'  it  worn  an'  crumpled,  'ith  the  news  all  read  out 
of  it.  I  thought,  yes,  I  did,  I  'd  go  to  the  circus. 
Ever  been  ?  Script' ral  an'  Biblical  show,  ye  know, 
camels  an'  cameleopards  an'  behemoths;  an'  if  the 
women-folks  rides  pecooler,  that  ain't  the  fault  o' 
the  critters.  I  'm  boun'  ter  say  I  like  to  see  w'at  's 
goin'  on,  so  long  as  it's  goin'  on!  Wunst  —  I'll 


Miss  Mahald's  Miracle  139 

tell  the   hull  truth  —  I   did  think   of  a  black  silk 
gownd.  I  got  so  far  as  to  hear  myself  a-rustlin'  in  it 
Sabbaths.  But  I  did  n't  purchase.   And  at  last  I  had 
a  hunderd  dollars.  A  hunderd  dollars  ain't  much, 
prob'bly,  ter  the  eyes  that  sees  all  the  gold  o'  the 
'arth,  an'  where  the  Queen  o'  Sheby  got  hem.  But 
'twas  a  sight  to  me.    An'  then  —  that's  the   way 
thin's  happens  —  to  them  that  hath  shall  be  given  — 
my  uncle  over  to  Stowe  up  an'  —  passed  away  — 
an' lef '  me  —  hm — hm  —  a  comf 'ble  competency. 
An'  there  I  was  'ith  that  an'  the  hunderd  dollars  too. 
I   did  n't  feel,  ye   know,   ter   spend   Uncle  Jairus's 
money;   but  that  hunderd  dollars  was  mine,  and  I 
cast  about  ter  see  w'at  I  could  do  'ith  it.  There  's 
times  w'en  a  trifle  o'  help  means  salvation  to  some 
folks.  An'  I  made  up  my  mind  ter  lend  it  out,  askin' 
no  interess,  to  people  a-strivin'.  The  fiist  one  was  — 
wall  —  never   mind  who.    He   was   a  carpent'rin'. 
An'  he  hed  idees,   he  said,  if  he  on'y  hed  money. 
An'  w'at  do  ye  think  come  to   pass  ?   He  traded  fer 
a  lot  o'  fumitur'  jes'  out  the  fact'ry,  made  like  the 
ole-fashioned  bureaus,  ye  know.   An'  there  he  was 
a-dentin'  and  a-bangin'   of  'em,  and  a-rubbin'  dust 
and  oil  inter  the  cracks,  an'  leavin'  on  'em  out  in  the 
rain  till  they  looked  as  if  they  'd  stood  in  the  barn- 
chamber  sence  John  Hancock  come  over.  Mis'  Beers 
said  it  went  right  to  her  heart  ter  see  Ezra  a-ruinin' 
them  new  thin's  and  her  best  room  as  bare 's  your 
hand.  An'  he  set  'em  roun'  the  house  and  up  garret, 


140  The  Eldei''*s  People 

two  or  three  to  a  time.  An'  then  he  sold  'em,  reel 
artfle,  to  city  folks  a-travelin'  roun',  for  prices  big 
as  Achan's  wedge  o'  gold.  I  warn't  goin'  to  stand 
that.  Regular  swindle.  And  as  he  hed  n't  the  money, 
I  took  the  fumitur';  and  then  them  city  folks  — 
sech  fools  folks  be  —  come  meechin'  roun'  ter  me. 
They  could  n't  believe  the  truth ;  said  't  was  plain 
impossible.  There  was  the  thin's !  An'  they  carted 
off  a  clock  or  a  sekertary,  and  lef '  what  they  called 
an  hones'  price  unner  the  door  w'en  I  slammed  it. 
Useter  think  I  was  feeble-minded.  Then  I  had  to 
wait  for  my  cruse  to  fill,  and  I  let  Joel  Bush  — 
there,  I  did  n't  mean  ter  mention  names !  Wal,  I 
lent  to  one  and  another,  and  ushully  they  didn't 
pay ;  they  took  it  out  in  sayin'  't  warn't  no  use  ter 
have  dealin's  with  a  woman.  But  I  ain't  ever  spent 
my  interess  money,  and  I  've  got  it  where  I  kin  lay 
my  hand  on  it  any  minute,"  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word.  "An'  now,  Mis'  Perry,  you've  beam  o' 
this  trouble  o'  Deacon  Wabbles  ?  " 

"  Something  of  it." 

"So.  Now  I  know  the  Deacon,  root  and  branch. 
He  's  as  honest  as  sunlight.  Ye  kin  see  clear  thru 
him.  I  'm  thinkin'  o'  visitin'  there  bimeby  and  a-slip- 
ping  that  money  unner  some  papers  in  his  sekertary, 
or  inter  some  book,  and  ast  Mis'  Wabbles  ef  she 's 
looked  everywhere  and  in  amongst  them  papers. 
Deacon  won't  never  sense  it.  He  '11  think  he  left  it 
there !  You  see  he  's  all  mixed.  He  does  n't  know 


Miss  Mahala's  Miracle  141 

his'n  fum  theim  nor  t'  other  fum  w'ich.  But  he 's 
allers  right  on  the  four  points,  let  come  what  will. 
I  guess  his  scan'alizers  '11  be  took  aback  w'en  he 
comes  out  atop,  'ith  that  money." 

"  Miss  Mahala,  you  're  a  genius  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Perry,  after  an  instant's  gaze. 

"I  do'  know  but  w'at  I  be,"  said  Miss  Ma- 
hala, smoothing  her  gown,  "  and  I  do'  know  as  I 
be." 

"  But  you  '11  lose  it  —  all  that  money  !  "  —  the 
Elder's  meager  salary  giving  the  sum  a  phenomenal 
weight. 

"  Calherlate  to.  In  a  good  cause.  I  can't  hev  such 
a  scandle  on  the  meetin'.  I  gotter  save  this  perrish 
from  reproach.  But  I  come  acrost  lots  ter  see  what 
ye  'd  say  to  it.  Fer  I  don't  want  ter  do  anythin' 
ag'in  lor  and  order." 

"  I  think  if  they  give  the  Deacon  time  —  " 

"  He  'd  straighten  out.  Yes.  I  think  jes'  's  you  do. 
But  time  kills,  you  know,  in  the  waitin'.  Wal.  So 
I  'm  goin'  over.  I  got  the  money  here.  An'  I  can 
trust  you  and  Elder  not  to  tell  on  me.  Fact  is,  I 
never  ast  a  merried  woman  not  to  mention  thin's  to 
her  husband,  because 't  ain't  no  use.  I  know  she  will. 
I  expect  the  Deacon  '11  be  ter  see  the  Elder  afore 
nightfall.  It  '11  do  my  soul  good  ter  see  Mis'  Wab- 
bles find  that  money.  An'  them  poor  children,  a-feel- 
ing  disgrace  a-hanging  over  'ern  —  their  faces  '11  be 
like  beaming  roses  nex'  Sabbath.  I  couldn't  enjoy 


142  The  Elder's  People 

that  money  anything  like  if  I  kep'  it  in  my  stockin'. 
Tell  me  now,  could  I  ?  " 

"  How  good  you  are,  Miss  Mahala  !  " 
"No,  I  ain't.  I  'm  jes'  givin'  Mahala  Brooks  a 
treat.  I  declare  to  man,  't  will  be  a  joyous  occasion 
w'en  I  see  the  Deacon,  straight 's  a  tall  pine,  stan'in' 
up  nex'  Sabbath  and  a-singin'  as  if  he  'd  lead  the 
hull  flock  on  us  up  the  heavenly  heights!  An'  I 
guess  Mis'  Wabbles  won't  be  sorry  that  day  she 
didn't  take  up  'ith  Hardin'  w'en  he  ast  her.  No,  I 
ain't  good.  For  I  do'  know  but  I  '11  enj'y  puttin' 
Deacon  Hardin'  an'  Cy  Thomas  an'  their  folks  ter 
confusion  'most  as  much  as  savin'  the  Deacon." 

It  was  an  hour  or  two  afterward  that  Miss  Ma- 
hala came  light-footed  to  Mrs.  Perry's  door  again. 
It  was  joy  and  not  the  spring  day's  heat  that  flushed 
her  face.  "  I  'm  beat  out,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  down 
and  untied  her  bonnet-strings.  "  I  'm  beat.  Now 
then.  I  made  my  call.  Mis'  Perry.  An'  in  the  course 
o'  talk  I  ses  ter  Drusilla,  '  You  looked  everywhere  ? ' 
ses  I.  '  Everywhere,'  ses  she.  '  Looked  thru  all  them 
books  on  the  sekertary  shelves  ?  '  ses  I.  '  S'pose  ye 
lemme  look !  I  'm  a  master  hand  at  findin'  things,' 
ses  I.  And  I  did  n't  wait,  but  went  inter  the  keepin'- 
room,  and  took  down  one  book  and  another,  and 
held  'em  up  by  the  covers  an'  did  n't  find  nothin',  and 
I  'd  jes'  slipped  them  bank-bills  inter  Scott's  '  Com- 
mentaries '  w'en  the  Deacon  come  in  himself.  '  Dea- 
con Wabbles,'  ses  I,  '  I  don't  believe  ye  ever  thought 


Miss  Mahala's  Miracle  143 

o'  lookin'  in  them  'are  books  fer  that  money.'  I  'd 
thought  he  'd  be  dretfle  disconsolate ;  but  he  wam't ; 
he  was  all  up  in  the  air.  '  Wy,  no,  I  ain't,'  ses  he. 
*  I  ain't  in  the  way  o'  puttin'  money  inter  books,' 
ses  he.  '  'T  won't  do  no  harm  ter  see,'  ses  I.  '  Folks 
doos  lots  o'  thin's  absent-minded  like.  There,  you 
take  this  pile,  and  I  '11  run  thru  this.  There  ain't  a 
dozen  on  'em,  hymn-books  and  all.'  An'  jes'  's  I 
was  a-slammin'  down  ^  Hobbs  on  Reverlations,'  the 
Deacon  cried  out.  An'  he  was  like  some  one  jes' 
raised  from  the  dead  —  stiff's  a  piller  o'  salt.  An' 
there  was  my  money  unner  his  hand.  'My  dear 
Lord !  My  dear  Lord  ! '  he  was  a-sayin'.  '  Drusilla  ! 
Here !  I  never  — yet  p'r'aps  I  may  —  I  do'  know  — 
I  kind  o'  remember  —  Yes,  yes !  '  he  ses  quick.  — 
'  'T  was  the  day  I  was  near  stunned  a-fallin'  off  the 
load  o'  salt  hay  we  fetched  in  over  the  ice  from  the 
medder,'  he  ses.  '  Yes,  now  I  remember  puffickly. 
Oh,  thank  God,  thank  God !  '  An'  thinks  I,  '  Wal, 
he  remembers,  does  he  ?  All  right,  then.'  But  Mis' 
Wabbles  wam't  noways  supprised ;  she  was  as 
calm  's  a  clock  ;  't  wam't  nothin'  beyond  her  ex- 
pectations that  meracles  should  come  to  pass  for  the 
Deacon ;  but  her  tears  was  a-pourin'  —  tears  o'  tri- 
umph. An'  Judith  stood  as  if  she  was  turned  to 
stone  'ith  joy.  An'  John  came  a-bustin'  in  to  the 
top  o'  his  voice,  an'  Laddie  he  begun  yelpin'  an' 
jumpin'  's  if  he  'd  knowed  it  all  along,  an'  Lauretty 
plumped  right  down  on  the  floor  off'rin'  thanks.  If 


144  The  Elder's  People 

they  ain't  all  sick  a-bed  to-morrow,  I  miss  my 
guess !  An'  the  Deacon  happened  ter  run  his  fingers 
over  the  leaves  'ithout  thinkin',  and  there,  if  you  '11 
believe  it,  was  another  set  o'  bills — the  very  bills, 
I  s'pose,  he  'd  put  in  there  an'  forgot  where,  thru 
that  fall  o'  his'n.  He  was  whiter  'n  a  sheet  of  pa- 
per. '  It 's  a  meracle !  '  ses  he.  ^  It 's  a  meracle  !  ' 
And  he  was  gladder  ter  think  the  Lord  'd  worked  a 
wonder  for  him  than  he  was  to  find  the  money.  So 
I  come  away  —  " 

"  And  left  your  money !  And  said  nothing !  "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Perry. 

"  Certain.  Jes'  that.  S'pose  I  'd  take  his  meracle 
away  from  him  ?  Mis'  Perry,  you  have  the  Elder 
give  out  the  las'  varse  o'  the  hymn  — 

<*  <  Thou  shalt  call  on  him  In  trouble. 
He  will  hearken,  he  will  save. 
Here  for  grief  reward  thee  double.* 

I  see  the  twinkle  in  Elder's  eye  w'en  he  reads  out 
that  'ar'  third  line.  He  can't  help  it.  Elder  can't ;  he 
may  be  a  saint,  but  he  's  a  man  first.  I  do'  know  — 
w'at  d'  ye  think  ?  —  p'r'aps  Deacon  Hardin'  an'  Cy 
Thomas  and  the  others  '11  be  moved  ter  go  up  and 
take  Deacon  Wabbles's  ban'.  He  won't  hold  no 
gretch ;  they  was  in  the  way  o'  their  duty.  And  if 
you  feel  the  leastestest  mite  like  chucklin',  you  '11 
jes'  chuckle  ter  yourself,  won't  ye  ?  " 

"The  Elder  '11  be  afraid  I  'm  losing  my  head." 


Miss  Mahald's  Miracle  145 

"The  Elder '11  never  be  afeared  o'  anythin  ex- 
ceptin'  that  you  '11  git  to  heaven  afore  him.  If  ye 
do,  jes'  reach  down  a  han'  ter  help  me  w'en  I  come 
climbin',  won't  ye  ?  " 


AN  OLD  FIDDLER 


VII 

An  Old  Fiddler 

THE  old  man  leaned  his  head  caressingly  to- 
wards his  fiddle,  as  he  sat  by  the  fire  in  the 
big  kitchen.  Outside,  the  rising  wind  was  threaten- 
ing storm,  and  every  now  and  then  a  vibration  of 
the  gusty  air  breathed  through  the  fiddle  and  mur- 
mured on  the  strings. 

"  I  do'  know  w'at  I  'd  du  ef  I  could  n't  hear  your 
leastestest  whisper,"  he  said,  softly,  to  the  instru- 
ment.  "  I  'd  ruther  die  than  be  deef,  I  would." 

"Dear  land!  I  'most  wisht  /was  deef,"  mut- 
tered the  young  woman  in  the  lean-to,  her  arms 
elbow-deep  in  soap  bubbles,  as  she  bent  over  her 
tubs.  It  was  going  to  storm,  but  washing  must  be 
done  on  washing-day.  "Momin',  noon,  an'  night, 
nothin'  but  fiddlin'  !  An'  the  's  kindlin's  ter  be  split, 
an'  water  ter  fetch,  an'  cows  ter  fodder,  an'  no  one  but 
Seth  ter  du  it  all.  An'  Gran'sir  ain't  a  speck  too  old 
ter  help.  But  there  !  "  And  she  spent  the  rest  of  her 
exasperation  in  wringing  the  sheet  so  dry  it  hardly 
knew  it  had  been  wet.  "  It 's  aggravatin'  ter  hev  jes' 
the  other  thin'  fum  the  thin'  ye  want,"  she  went  on. 
"  The  sound  of  a  pair  o'  little  patterin'  feet  'd  'a' 
be'n  a  sight  pleasanter  'n  all  the  music  outen  that 
fiddle !   An'  sometimes  your  arms  fairly  achin'  fer 


150  The  Elder' s  People 

the  heft  of  w'at  they  ain't  got!  "  And  the  next  piece 
she  washed  was  very  clean  indeed. 

The  strains  of  the  violin  came  lightly  in  "  Whistle 
o'er  the  lave  o't."  If  there  was  a  delicate  irony  in 
the  intonation,  as  the  old  man  smiled  to  himself,  the 
hearer  did  not  know  it,  and  it  did  not  abash  a  couple 
of  yellow  kittens  that  scrambled  about  his  shoulders 
and  put  up  their  backs  at  the  voice  of  this  other 
purring  creature.  "You're  'most  as  good  as  sun- 
beams," he  said,  presently,  to  the  cats. 

"  There  it  goes,"  said  the  young  woman  to  her- 
self again.  "  Here  I  be  a-renchin'  of  the  clo'es  ter 
music,  and  I  guess  the  fire  '11  keep  time  a-b'ilin'  of 
'em.  It 's  w'at  he 's  be'n  doin'  his  life  thru.  Ef 
't  wam't  fer  that  fiddle  all  this  land  'd  be'n  cleared 
an'  down  ter  wheat  afore  ever  Seth  was  born.  Seth 
can't  du  every  thin'.  It's  enough  ter  pervoke  a  saint, 
let  alone  me.  And  I  ain't  no  sort  of  a  saint ! " 

She  was  right.  She  was  n't  any  sort  of  a  saint ;  al- 
though Seth  had  often  said  she  was  the  best  of  wives. 

"  They  don't  make  'em  any  better  'n  you  be, 
Kitty,"  he  said  once. 

"  My !  You  must  n't  talk  so,"  she  had  replied, 
winding  into  place  the  big  fallen  braid  of  satin-sleek 
black  hair.  "Suthin'  might  happen!" 

"  I  s'pose  ye  think  the  Lord  's  watchin'  out  ter 
trip  me,"  he  had  said. 

"  Seth  McGregor,  you  make  me  scairt !  It  sounds 
jes'  like  Gran'sir !  " 


An  Old  Fiddler  151 

She  could  say  nothing  stronger,  he  knew.  But  he 
had  laughed  and.  finished  his  hot  doughnut,  and 
wiped  his  mouth  and  kissed  her,  and  had  gone  off 
to  his  ploughing,  and  she  had  gone  back  to  her 
rolling-pin.  "  I  '11  make  'em  all  han's,"  she  said. 
**"  Seth  likes  'em  crisp.  But  then  Gran'sir,  he  likes 
the  hole.  Land  sakes,  I  did  n't  engage  ter  tend  out 
on  two  on  'em !  Though  I  do'  know 's  I  'd  mind  ef 
'twam't  fer  that  fiddle.  P'r'aps  I  ain't  no  ear  for 
music.  Dear  knows  w'at  I  '11  du  in  heaven,  'ith  all 
the  harp-playin'  there. — I'd  better  git  there  fust, 
though.  I  shan't,  s'  long 's  I  let  this  everlastin'  fid- 
dlin'  Stan'  in  my  way." 

But,  indeed,  how  could  you  say  it  was  pleasant, 
when  you  were  quite  down  and  out  of  sorts,  to  have 
the  tune  of  "  Smile  again,  my  bonnie  lassie  "  strike 
up  and  insist  on  being  heard  ?  Or  when  you  were 
gazing  over  your  knitting,  wondering  how  a  man 
could  be  so  thriftless,  to  have  the  "Jolly  Beggar" 
come  laughing  out  as  if  he  read  your  thoughts  so 
that  it  made  you  creepy  ?  And  what  could  be  more 
calculated  to  stir  one  up  than,  when  on  a  lovely 
spring  morning  you  had  to  be  over  the  hot  fire,  to 
hear  that  bow  of  his  going  on  about  the  cool  green 
"  Birks  of  Aberfeldie  "  ?  No  one  could  say  it  did  n't 
set  the  nerves  on  edge,  when  you  had  been  scrub- 
bing the  floor,  and  knew  you  would  ha\'e  that  floor 
to  scrub  the  rest  of  your  mortal  life,  and  your 
cotton  gown  was  all  soaked  and  dripping,  to  have 


152  The  Elder's  People 

the  fiddle  begin  "An'  ye  sail  walk  in  silk  attire"  — 
when  you  had  never  had  a  thread  of  silk  on  your 
back ! 

When  Gran'sir  came  into  his  father's  forest-land 
up  here,  he  had  a  chance  to  farm  it  like  Asher's 
folks,  for  the  hills  just  dropped  fatness  on  that  land. 
But  no ;  he  scratched  the  ground  for  enough  for  to- 
day, and  let  to-morrow  take  care  of  itself,  —  to- 
moiTow  now  having  come  to  mean  Seth  and  Kitty. 
And  now  Seth  had  to  delve  so  he  could  hardly  take 
a  day  off  and  go  to  the  beach  and  get  her  scouring- 
sand.  Her  poor  man,  —  her  dear  man!  And  what 
came  of  it  all  —  his  delving,  her  scrubbing  ?  They 
kept  body  and  soul  together,  and  no  more.  If  Gran'- 
sir  had  done  different,  instead  of  running  in  every 
hour  or  so,  all  his  young  days,  for  a  tune  on  his  fid- 
dle or  to  turn  the  slip  of  wood  he  was  drying  in  the 
sun  for  another  fiddle,  Seth  might  be  driving  his 
own  team  now;  he  might  be  selectman;  there 'd  be 
another  story  on  the  house,  and  green  blinds,  and 
glass  in  the  front  door,  maybe;  and  her  best  dress 
would  n't  be  that  alpaca  she  had  when  she  was  mar- 
ried; she  might  go  round  cracking  in  her  silks  like 
Denison's  folks.  And  the  old  man  would  play  on, 
apparently  unaware  of  these  sinister  reflections,  or  of 
the  steady  disapproving  gaze  across  the  knitting- 
needles.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  played  wild,  sweet 
dance-tunes,  and  called  out  the  figures  as  he  used  to 
when  he  played  for  the  boys  and  girls  in  the  bam 


An  Old  Fiddler  153 

dances  of  his  youth,  and  it  seemed  then  to  his  listener 
as  if  the  very  witches  and  warlocks  of  Tarn  o'  Shan- 
ter  were  capering  in  her  outraged  kitchen.  Some- 
times, instead,  he  had  said :  "  Now  you  shall  hear 
what  the  wind  ses  on  a  summer  night  —  a  night  of 
August.  Hear  it  now  come  over  the  tree-tops,  mur- 
murin',  murmurin' " ;  and  she  had  remembered  a 
"  going  in  the  tops  of  the  mulberry- trees,"  and  had 
heard  the  soft  summer  wind  rush  down  in  the  dark 
and  lift  the  great  boughs ;  and  now  it  swept  the  fields 
of  the  bowing  grain;  and  now  she  knew  it  passed  over 
the  drooping  heads  of  flowers  and  brushed  away 
their  dews,  and  went  on  heavy  with  fragrance ;  and 
now  she  heard  a  whippoorwill  cry  like  a  flute,  and 
now  the  strain  rose  and  seemed  to  shake  the  stars. 

"  Wal,  't  ain't  no  use,"  she  said  to-day,  wiping 
the  suds  off"  her  arms.  "  Dear  knows  I  don't  want 
ter  send  any  of  Seth's  folks  ter  the  poor' us,  least- 
ways the  only  one  he 's  got  —  if  he  do  deserve  it. 
And  Gran'sir  's  mortal  proud  there  ain't  never  be'n 
a  McGregor  in  the  poor' us.  He  doos  jes'  despise  the 
poor' us.  It 's  comfort' ble  down  there,  though,  an* 
lots  of  other  old  men  ter  talk  an'  fiddle  to.  But 
there !  he  could  n't  go  's  long  's  he 's  got  his  pension. 
And  I  don't  begretch  him  his  vittles.  I  don't  be- 
gretch  him  nothin'.  I  like  him  roun'  —  leastways, 
'most  alius.  But  Gran'sir  ain't  done  a  stroke  of  w'at 
ye  might  call  work  sence  Seth  could  du  it  for  him. 
Lord  o'  love!  I  'd  orter  be  'shamed  ter  be  put  about 


1 54  The  Elder's  People 

so  by  nothin' !  I  would  n't  mind  so  much  ef  Gran'- 
sir  was  an  ol'  woman  —  though  I  cal'h' late  she 'd 
alius  be  a-meddlin'.  An'  he  don't  meddle  —  much. 
But  then  she  would  n't  be  a  fiddlin'.  But  't  ain't  jes' 
nothin'  "  —  the  flood  of  her  thoughts  eddying  back 
like  a  river  among  rocks — "ter  find  out,  the  way 
we  did  yist'day,  that  long  and  long  ago  Gran'sir 
sold  that  land  round  the  hill,  thet  Seth  always 
thought  was  his'n,  where  there's  talk  o'  the  rail- 
road going  thru,  for  a  fiddle !  And  all  he 's  sorry 
for  's  thet  a  tramp  stole  the  fiddle.  Lor' !  w'at  a  fool 
I  be !  "  And  she  tied  a  shawl  over  her  head  and 
shoulders  and  went  to  hang  out  her  clothes. 

She  was  holding  with  both  outstretched  hands  a 
sheet  flapping  stiflly  in  the  wind,  a  clothes-pin  be- 
tween her  teeth,  when  with  a  jingle  of  bells  the 
old  yellow  stage  came  slipping  along  on  its  run- 
ners, as  if  chuckling  to  itself  over  the  disappearance 
of  its  noisy  wheels.  "  I  declare  I  'm  gittin'  silly !  I 
thought  't  was  that  fiddle,"  she  said. 

The  stage  stopped.  ",Guess  the's  suthin'  fer  your 
folks,'*  the  driver  shouted.  "The's  a  passel  fer  the 
ol'  gentleman."  Climbing  down,  he  thrashed  his 
arms  a  minute  before  overhauling  his  load. 

"  There  's  Mis'  Somers's  trunk,"  said  he.  "  She 's 
be'n  down  to  Salt  Water.  An'  Mis'  Elder  Perry's 
ban'box,  —  guess  she 's  got  a  new  bunnit.  That 
'ere 's  the  bresh  Square  Davison 's  sent  to  Elder  fer 
a  Chrismus-tree, —  's  ef  there  warn't  wood  next  his 


An  Old  Fiddler  155 

door.  Kind  o'  papish.  But  makes  business.  Square 's 
sent  two  loads  ter  market.  Gits  ten  cents  apiece.  Here 
ye  be  !  "  and  he  left  a  long,  thin  box  inside  the  drift, 
reorganized  his  load,  encouraged  his  passengers,  and 
jingled  off.  "Looks  like  a  spell  o^  weather,"  he 
called  back  cheerftilly. 

"  My  goodness  !  "  said  Mrs.  Kitty.  "  Wat 's  ter 
du  now  ?  " 

Kitty  hastened  up  the  slope,  letting  a  great  breeze 
into  the  kitchen,  and  leaving  the  door  open.  The 
old  man  rose  and  closed  the  door.  Then  he  untied 
the  box  with  deliberation,  winding  the  various 
strings  into  little  rolls,  after  he  had  amused  the 
jumping  kittens  with  them  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Gran'sir  !   Du  make  haste  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Then  he  took  off  and  folded  paper  after  paper. 
''Handy,  sometime,"  he  said.  At  last  he  lifted  out 
a  shabby  green  violin-case. 

"Gran'sir!"  she  almost  shrieked,  twisting  her 
hands  as  she  watched  him.  ''  You  hain't  be'n  spendin' 
yer  pension-money  fer  another  fiddle  !  " 

"  I  give  my  pension-money  to  your  man  the  day 
I  sign  for  it,"  he  answered,  with  some  dignity,  yet 
too  pre-occupied  to  be  offended.  "  This  means  thet 
my  oV  cap'n  's  gone.  We  was  to  the  Mexican  war 
together.  You  Ve  heem  me  tell  —  " 

"  O  Lor' !  yes,  Gran'sir  !  " 

"  He  promised,  w'en  he  was  done  'ith  it,  thet  I 
should  hev  his  fiddle.  An'  here  it  is.  He 's  done  'ith 


156  The  Elder" s  People 

it.  And  I  'd  ruther  'a'  played  on  the  old  one  I  made 
myself  out'n  a  piece  o*  pine  and  a  piece  o'  maple, 
till  kingdom  come,  than  hed  this  an'  knowed  he 
won't  play  on  it  no  more.  By  mighty !  he  made  it 
sing  !  Oncet  I  reckoned  I  'd  like  ter  hev  it,  —  but 
now  —  wal,  I  shan't  ever  play  on  it  onless  there 's 
an  occasion  thet  's  more  out  o'  the  common  than 's 
likely  now.  Wal,  wal !  They  're  all  goin'  thet  ain't 
gone.  I  ain't  done  nothin'  but  walk  acrost  graves 
this  forty  year."  And  he  sat  down,  trembling,  and 
trailing  the  bow,  a  far-away  look  in  his  big  pale 
eyes  that  made  Kitty  tremble,  too.  She  hurried  and 
beat  up  a  flip  for  him,  surprised  at  herself. 

The  old  man  woke  from  his  reverie  as  she  brought 
it,  startling  the  kittens,  who  were  examining  the 
bow  with  doubting  paws.  "  By  king !  I  'd  ruther 
have  give  a  dollar  than  hed  the  Cap'n  die,"  he  said. 
"  I  wam't  in  the  way  of  seein'  of  him,  but  I  knowed 
he  was  on  this  breathin'  yarth.  I  'd  orter  went  fust, 
I  hed.  He'd  orter  gin  the  word  and  I  step  forrud. 
—  You'd  orter  took  me!  "  he  exclaimed,  suddenly, 
as  if  to  the  universe.  "  Don't  seem 's  ef  thet  gre't  fire 
in  him  could  'a'  be'n  blowed  out,"  he  added,  more 
quietly.  "  He  was  alive  clean  thru,  the  Cap'n." 

Kitty  went  out  and  banged  the  door  behind  her. 
He  might  take  his  flip  or  leave  it.  "  But  there !  he 
felt  reel  bad,  did  n't  he  ?  Oh  my !  thin's  won't  let 
me  be  good,  no  matter  how  I  try  !  'T  aint  no  time 
sence  I  see  a  mouse  a-settin'  in  the  crack  listenin' 


An  Old  Fiddler  157 

to  him  a-pickin'  on  the  strin's.  ^  Let  him  alone,'  he 
ses.  '  I  've  sujergated  him.  I  '11  hev  him  singin'  yit,' 
ses  he.  And  I  scairt  out'n  my  five  wits  by  a  mouse ! 
Sometimes  I  think  so  I  'd  like  ter  hev  my  home  ter 
myself!  But  then  again  I  do' know.  My  goodness! 
this  ain't  no  sperrit  fer  a  perfesser !  But  it 's  hard  livin' 
up  ter  thin's  'ith  Gran'sir  argyin'  'ith  the  Elder,  an' 
sayin'  the  Elder's  easy  satersfied.  I  kin  hear  Elder 
now  a-sayin',  *  Have  you  anjthing  better  to  offer 
me,  McGregor  ?  Then,  if  you  have  n't,'  he  ses, 
'don't  take  away  w'at  I  have,'  he  ses.  An'  Gran'- 
sir says,  '  That 's  right ! '  jes'  's  ef  he  wus  pattin' 
Elder  on  the  back.  It 's  hard,  fetched  up  as  I  've 
be'n,  ter  hear  Gran' sir's  talk  sometimes  in  my  kitch- 
ing." 

The  clothes  on  the  line  swayed  solemnly.  "They 
've  froze  harder  'n  Pharaoh's  heart  a' ready,"  said 
Kitty.  "I  '11  hev  ter  let  'em  freeze  dry.  An' 
then  they  '11  tear  ter  slits  a-gittin'  of  'em  off 'n  the 
lines.  Land  alive !  "  —  as  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells 
came  again  —  "  ef  there  ain't  Elder  Ferry  !  An' 
me  all  sozzled  and  drozzled !  That's  jes'  the  way 
thin's  happens.  Dear  sakes !  w'y  could  n't  he  'a' 
come  some  other  day  than  wash-day !  I  don't  care 
—  it 's  good  ter  see  Elder  any  day,"  her  interior 
consciousness  added. 

The  Elder  came  bustling  up,  with  his  arms  full. 

I  don't  believe  you  're  real  glad  to  see  me.  Mis' 

McGregor,"  he  said,  when  within.  "And  I  didn't 


158  The  Elder'' s  People 

tike  to  come  to-day,  for  I  know  you  'd  wash  Mon- 
day if  the  world  was  to  end  Tuesday.  But  the  fact 
is  —  The  way  the  women  wrap  up  a  baby  in  cold 
weather  —  I  would  n't  like  to  have  a  child  suffo- 
cated—  under  all  these  cloaks  and  veils.  I'll  give 
it  a  breather,  and  maybe  you  '11  warm  a  drop  of 
milk  or  some  cream  and  water  for  it.  Here  's  the 
bottle."  And  he  was  stripping  off  and  scattering 
layer  after  layer  of  old  shawls  and  blankets,  and 
there  came  a  little  gurgling  sound,  and  a  gleam  of 
something  pink  as  a  blush-rose,  and  there  was  a 
baby  —  a  beautiful  bouncing  baby. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Kitty,  pushing  in  front  of  Gran'sir, 
"  ain't  it  a  little  dear  ?  Whose  is  it  ?  Where  you 
goin'  'ith  it  ?  W'y,  Elder,  you  're  awful  handy  'ith 
a  baby ! " 

"  Served  my  apprenticeship.  There !  Ain't  that  a 
fine  child  ? " 

"  It 's  a  beauty !  A  reel  darlin' !  How  old  is  it  ? 
Six  months  ?  Eight  ?  It 's  most  oncommon  big  fer 
that.  Shan't  I  take  it  ?  'T  ain't  much  heftier  'an  a 
cat.  My !  Ain't  there  more  'n  this  ter  babies  ?  Do 
you  s'pose  it 's  all  right  ?  " 

"  Right  as  a  trivet,"  said  the  Elder.  "  She  's  poor 
old  Mis'  Deacon  Hills's  granddaughter,  and  she 
hasn't  anybody  kin  to  her  this  side  of  heaven.  Good 
stock,  you  see." 

"  But  most  misfortunate,"  said  Gran'sir. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  afraid  Mis'  Hills  would  have  gone  on 


An  Old  Fiddler  159 

the  town  if  she  'd  lived.  But  she  would  n't  hear  of 
it  —  '' 

"  Too  blamed  independent,"  said  Gran' sir.  "  I 
like  her  sperrit." 

"  Well,  she  won't  go  now,"  continued  the  Elder. 
"  But  it  would  be  hard  on  Mis'  Perry  to  keep  this 
baby,  with  six  of  her  own ;  now  would  n't  it  ?  The 
almshouse  is  n't  far  from  here.  But  I  '11  toast  up  a 
spell  before  I  go.  And  perhaps  Mr.  McGregor  '11 
let  me  hear  what  his  violin  has  to  say  about  it.  By 
the  way,  I  often  wonder  what  the  weather  really  was 
that  night  in  Bethlehem." 

"  Heavenly  weather,"  said  Gran'sir,  —  "  thet  is, 
ef  thin's  was  as  you  say  they  was." 

"With  part  of  heaven  coming  down,"  said  the 
Elder.  "You  warming  the  baby's  feet,  Mis'  Mc- 
Gregor? There's  nothing  prettier  than  a  baby's 
feet." 

"The  poor  little  soul!  What  color  do  ye  call 
her  eyes  ?  She  's  lookin'  at  me  solemn  's  a  graven 
image.  You  can't  say  yit  ?  Ef  that  ain't  jes'  like  a 
man !  They  change  in  the  fust  months  ?  What  a  lot 
you  know.  Elder !  " 

"  Well,  six  of  them  are  educating,"  said  the  Elder. 

"  I  du  hope  it 's  goin'  ter  hev  blue  eyes,"  said 
Kitty,  as  she  warmed  the  milk.  "  I  alius  thought  a 
blue-eyed  baby  was  a  picter.  Seth's  eyes  are  blue.  I 
s'pose  I  don't  desarve  it,  or  I'd  'a'  hed  one  o'  my 


own." 


160  The  Elder' s  People 

"We  don't  always  deserve  our  blessings,"  said 
the  Elder. 

"  My !  But  she 's  hungry,  the  sweet  lamb !  "  she 
said,  taking  her  rocking-chair. 

"  She 's  sort  o'  pooty,"  said  Gran'sir,  looking  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"SortoM" 

"  Too  pooty  fer  the  poor'us,  anyway." 

"  It 's  a  shame  !  "  cried  Kitty,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  Elder.  "  But  what  else  can  we 
do  ?  I  'd  like  to  find  her  a  home  with  some  good 
people  who  haven't  any  children,  and  who  have 
nothing  but  a  silent  house  and  a  lonely  old  age  to 
look  forward  to  —  " 

"  Yes.  The  Bible  sez  a  babe  in  the  house  is  a  well- 
spring  of  pleasure." 

"  Well  —  ahem  !  —  not  the  Bible  exactly.  But  a 
very  good  man,  I  've  no  doubt.  And  I  'm  sure  the 
—  the  Bible  authorities  would  —  would  agree  to  it. 
For  a  child  does  make  cheer.  And  it  costs  little  or 
nothing  before  it 's  old  enough  to  help.  This  little 
girl  '11  be  a  sight  of  help  in  a  few  years." 

"  She  '11  be  a  sight  o'  care  fust." 

"  Mis'  Perry  never  seems  to  find  them  much  care." 

"  Elder  Perry  !  "  she  exclaimed,  turning  her  head 
over  her  shoulder  like  a  frightened  bird,  perhaps  at 
the  thought  that  Seth  might  come  in,  "I  b'lieve 
you  've  fetched  this  baby  a-purpose  ter  temp'  me  ter 
take  it ! " 


An  Old  Fiddler  161 

"  Well,  Mis'  McGregor  —  That  is  —  I  mean  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  b'lieve  but  w'at  I  M  like  ter !  "  she 
cried.  "  Only  I  guess  the  Lord  knowed  my  temper  was 
too  onsartin  ter  be  trusted.  But  I  'd  try.  My  gra- 
cious !  would  n't  I  try !  Oh,  it 's  no  use.  Seth  'd  never 
let  me  in  all  this  world  o'  worlds.  He  'd  say  I  warn't 
made  fer  it,  he  could  n't  afford  it,  he  could  n't  hev 
me  pestered,  I  warn't  fit.  And  I  'd  try  reel  hard  ter 
befit—" 

"  Tryin'  's  better  'n  bein',  any  day,  Kitty,"  said 
Gran'sir.  "  Them  innercent  creeturs  w'at  's  bom  all 
right  can't  hold  a  candle  to  them  that 's  grown  all 
shiny  strugglin'." 

A  melancholy  wind  sighed  round  the  eaves. 

"  Jes'  hear  it !  "  said  Kitty.  ""  It  alius  makes  me 
feel  reel  down  w'en  it  comes  up  that  way." 

" '  And  there  came  a  great  wind  from  the  wilder- 
ness,' "  said  the  Elder.  "  Yes,  it  is  getting  rough  out- 
side. Perhaps  you  could  make  out  to  keep  this  little 
lady  till  the  storm 's  over  !  " 

*'  I  wonder  what  Seth  'd  say.  I  could  make  her  up 
a  little  bed  in  the  clo'es- basket.  I  'd  put  the  pink  spread 
in  — I  made  it  'fore  I  was  merried —  it 's  lined  with 
lamb's  wool ;  an'  then  a  couple  o'  pillers,  an'  set  the 
bedroom  door  open  —  " 

"  You  might  try  it,"  said  the  Elder. 

"  I  guess  she  'd  be  reel  comfortable." 

Gran'sir  picked  up  the  yellow  kittens  and  put  them 
on  her  lap  beside  the  baby,  who  instantly  left  her 


162  The  Elder's  People 

bottle  and  reached  for  them  with  an  inarticulate  cry 
of  joy. 

" Oh,  cats !  '*  said  Kitty.  "  Wat 's cats  w'en  you've 
got  a  baby  ?  I  s'pose  them  kitties  'd  be  gittin'  inter 
her  bed,  too.  Do  you  think  cats  sucks  a  baby's  breath, 
really  ?  I'm  awful  afeard  o'  cats." 

"  No,  indeed.  They  would  n't  let  so  much  as  a 
bird  come  near  a  baby.    They  just  like  a  warm  nest." 

"  If  she  should  cry  in  the  night  an'  wake  Seth 
up  —  " 

"  'T  would  take  more  than  her  little  pipe  to  wake 
a  man  as  tired  as  Seth." 

"  He  needs  his  sleep,  you  know,"  she  said,  anx- 
iously. 

"  He  needs  a  little  daughter  to  brighten  his  de- 
clining years," 

"  A  little  daughter  !  Oh  my  !  "  Her  eager  eyes  were 
searching  space.  "  A  little  daughter  —  " 

"  You  could  name  her,  you  know.  You  could 
call  her  after  Seth's  mother  —  " 

"  I  do'  know  about  that.  I  did  n't  set  so  much  by 
Seth's  mother  as  p'r'aps  I  'd  orter  done.  Leastways, 
that 's  the  way  it  looks,  now  she  's  dead.  But  when 
she  was  alive  she  said  I  was  a  lot !  There  !  She  's 
took  'most  every  drop.  She's  sleepy,  too.  Hushaby, 
hushaby,  baby.  Scat,  you  two !  She 's  goin'  ter  sleep  ! 
Oh,  ain't  it  sweet !  You  mean  ter  say  this  dear  little 
thin'  ain't  got  any  name  yet  ?  W'y,  I  've  seventeen 
names  all  picked  out  fer  a  little  daughter ! " 


Jn  Old  Fiddler  163 

"  She  'd  be  quite  a  royal  personage  if  you  gave 
them  all  to  her.  —  Striking  twelve  !  "  said  the  Elder, 
looking  round  for  his  greatcoat,  getting  into  it  quickly, 
and  tying  up  his  throat  in  the  long  yards  of  a  woolen 
muffler.  "  I  think  I'll  leave  her  here  overnight,  any- 
way, if  you  don't  mind  the  trouble  — '' 

"  Trouble ! " 

"  It 's  really  too  cold  to  take  a  tender  baby  farther 
to-day.  My  wife  gave  me  a  bundle  of  clothes  for 
her ;  they  're  in  the  pung.  I  '11  fetch  them." 

"  Don't  let  in  any  more  of  a  draught  than  you  can 
help,  Elder,"  said  Kitty,  holding  up  her  apron.  "  My ! 
How  that  door  slammed  !  I  sh'd  'a'  thought  't  would 
'a'  waked  her  up.  But,  Lor' !  I  s'pose  Gran'sir's 
fiddle  '11  du  that,  an}^vay !  " 

The  Elder  was  taking  off  his  boots  that  evening 
by  the  fire  of  the  room  that  served  for  his  study  and 
his  wife's  sitting-room.  "  I  think,  my  dear,"  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Perry,  who  was  turning  his  old  coat,  "  that, 
considering  I  'm  a  man,  I  arranged  the  affair  of  that 
baby  pretty  well." 

"  I  've  heard  say  those  laugh  best  who  laugh  last," 
said  Mrs.  Perry,  her  mouth  full  of  pins.  "  But  I  suppose 
you'll  have  to  go  up  there  again  when  it  clears 
off—" 

"  And  deal  with  Seth.  And  Seth  's  another  propo- 
sition. Yes." 

Seth  had  been  all  day  in  the  woods  at  his  logging. 
As  he  straightened  his  back  and  wiggled  into  his 


164  The  Elder" s  People 

sweater,  and  sat  on  the  icy  stump  eating  his  apple- 
pie  at  noon,  the  pie  so  cold  that  it  made  his  teeth 
ache,  he  stretched  the  tired  muscles  of  his  arms  and 
looked  at  the  depth  of  the  forest  yet  to  go  down  under 
his  axe ;  he  asked  himself  what  he  was  doing  it  for. 
It  *s  all  one  long  endurin'  grind.  Same  old  story 
year  in  an'  year  out.  Green  peas,  Fourth  of  July, 
shell-beans,  an'  bank  yer  house.  The's  nobody  ter 
come  after  me.  Gran'sir  '11  be  dead,  an'  Kitty  '11  be 
dead,  an'  I  '11  be  dead.  Ef  't  wam't  fer  that  fiddle  o' 
Gran'sir's  I  do'  know  's  I  'd  heave  another  stroke. 
Gosh !  that  feelin'  's  jes'  the  fiddle  in  my  blood,  an' 
work  's  the  on'y  cure  for  it ! "  And  he  used  the  cure 
vigorously  till  the  early  nightfall,  when  he  tramped 
home  through  the  falling  snow  and  the  gale  that 
struck  him  like  a  blow  as  he  left  the  shelter  of  the 
wood. 

Kitty  had  laid  the  baby  down,  and  had  heaped 
the  frozen  clothes  in  the  lean-to,  lest  their  dampness 
should  hurt  the  child.  And  then  she  had  picked  the 
dead  leaves  of  her  scarlet  geraniums  in  the  window, 
feeling  they  must  not  suffer  because  of  the  baby. 
When  she  came  back,  Gran'sir  was  standing  over  the 
child  with  his  fiddle,  playing  softly,  softly,  as  he 
leaned  down,  "My  love  is  but  a  lassie  yet;"  and 
the  baby,  warm  and  fed  and  in  a  state  of  well-being, 
was  crowing  and  kicking  in  reply.  It  was  almost 
the  first  time  that  Kitty  had  liked  the  sound  of  those 
strings.  She  ran  and  bent  down  too. 


An  Old  Fiddler  165 

"  She 's  reel  fond  o'  music,  ain't  she,  Gran'sir  ?  " 
she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  moist  eyes. 

"  She  's  sweet  as  a  peach,"  said  Gran'sir.  And  his 
fiddle  twanged  out  a  reel,  and  they  persuaded  them- 
selves that  the  child's  feet  were  keeping  time  to  it. 
Then  there  was  a  great  stamping  off  of  snow  in  the 
shed,  the  door  opened,  and  Seth  came  in.  With  a 
sudden  sentiment  both  of  protection  and  of  defiance 
she  caught  the  baby  up  and  faced  him. 
"  Whose  baby  is  that  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Mine  !  "  she  answered,  triumphantly.  And  she 
held  it  high,  dancing  it  up  and  down  to  the  tune  that 
still  went  on. 

"  Are  you  all  out  o'  your  heads  ? "  cried  Seth. 
"  Oh,  Seth,"  she  said,  as  the  tune  stopped,  going 
to  him  with  the  child,  "  it 's  a  little  baby  that 's  got 
no  home  an'  no  father  nor  mother.  Can't  we  keep 
it,  Seth?" 

"  We !  We  can't  keep  ourselves !  "  said  Seth. 
"  As  ef  a  baby  'd  make  any  diff'runce !  " 
"  'T  wouldn't  alius  be  a  baby.  Well,  it 's  blust'rin' 
up  consider'ble.  W'at  you  got  fer  supper  ? " 
"  But,  Seth  —  " 

"  George !  The  table  ain't  sot  out  yit.  And  I  'm 
ready  fer  a  square  meal.  Who  's  visitin'  'ith  that 
baby?" 

"Nobody,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  over  the 
child  as  he  had  not  seen  her  smile  in  a  year.  "Elder 
Perry  's  fetched  the  baby  fer  us  ter  take." 


166  The  Elder's  People 

"  Fer  us  ter  take  ?  —  Where  's  the  sand  ?  I  got 
ter  git  this  pitch  ofTn  my  hands.  Come,  Kitty,  quit 
your  foolin'  an'  let 's  have  some  supper.  I  done  a 
good  day's  work  to-day." 

"  You  'd  du  a  better  one  ef  you  hed  this  little  thin' 
ter  work  fer,"  she  said,  in  atone  that  was  new  to  him. 

"  You  ain't  in  'arnest,  be  ye,  Kitty  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, wheeling  round  from  the  sink. 

"I  be,  too  !  I  wanter  keep  this  baby  !  " 

"Keep  a  child  ye  don't  know  nothin'  about? 
W'y,  you  're  crazy,  wife  !  A  little  come-by-chance 
ter  break  our  hearts  bime-by,  maybe,  'ith  the  tricks 
of  its  own  folks  —  " 

"  Its  own  folks  was  the  Deacon  Hills's.  And  I 
guess  there  ain't  any  better  in  the  Settlement !  " 

"Sho,  sho!  An'  there  ain't  any  on  'em  left. 
Wat  's  goin'  ter  be  done  'ith  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  goin'  ter  stay  here  an'  be  oum." 

"  Not  ef  I  know  it,"  said  Seth.  "  Here,  I  '11  hold 
it  while  you  git  supper.  How  come  the  Elder  ter 
fetch  it  here  ?  " 

"  He  was  takin'  it  ter  the  poor' us,"  said  Kitty, 
sullenly. 

"  He  'd  better  have  gone  on.  It 's  got  ter  go." 
In  this  snow  ?  Not  onlest  I  go  tew ! " 
Kitty !  I  would  n't  know  't  was  you!  " 
Don't  you  Kitty  me  !  "  she  cried,  now  in  a 
storm   of  anger.    "  My   name 's   Keturah.  And  I 
won't  be  called  out'n  it !  " 


(£ 
<£ 
(( 


An  Old  Fiddler  167 

"  But,  Kitty  —  I  mean,  Keturah  —  I  —  " 

"Oh,  you,  you,  you!"  And  Kitty  burst  into 
tears  and  buried  her  face  in  the  baby's  skirts,  the 
baby  regarding  it  as  play  and  clutching  at  her  hair 
rejoicingly. 

Seth  loosened  the  tiny  hands  and  took  the  child. 
Kitty,"  he  said,  ''you  know  I'd  du  anythin'  in 
reason.  Ef  the  Lord  had  'a'  sent  this,  we  'd  'a' 
roughed  it.  But  ter  go  and  ask  fer  trouble  by  takin' 
it  w'en  we  ain't  a  dollar  ahead  in  the  world,  w'y, 
I  can't !  Ye  might  as  well  cry  fer  a  planner.  I  'd  like 
ter  keep  the  little  thin',  —  I  would,  sure.  But  it 's  a 
luxur)\  An'  we  're  too  poor  for  luxuries.  I  'm 
sorry." 

Gran'sir  went  to  put  his  fiddle  on  the  shelf,  and 
touched  Kitt^-'s  elbow  as  he  went.  The  touch  thrilled 
her  with  the  knowledge  that  she  had  an  ally.  "  'T  ain't 
settled  yet,"  he  whispered.   "  You  git  supper!  " 

"Kitty,"  said  Seth,  when  they  had  finished  and 
cleared  away  the  repast,  the  baby  fallen  asleep,  and 
had  spread  the  red  cloth  on  the  table,  and  brought 
out  the  Weekly  Ploughman^  and  turned  up  the  lamp, 
"  I  don't  want  you  ter  think  I  don't  reco'nize  that 
you  made  dip-toast  fer  me  to-night  becos  it 's  a  fa- 
voright  'ith  me,  an'  give  me  your  best  preser\-es. 
I  'd  keep  the  child  'thouten  yer  doin'  that  ef  I  felt 
anpvise  ekil  to  it.  An'  you  need  n't  s'pose  it  ain't 
pleasant  ter  me  ter  see  ye  a-spreadin'  of  the  little 
thin's  ter  warm,  an'  goin'  roun'  'ith  a  baby  on  yer 


168  The  Elder's  People 

arm.  Fer  it  Is.  But  that 's  all  there  is  about  it."  He 
rose  and  stretched  his  arms  over  his  head.  "  Wal, 
I  'm  tired  as  a  dog  thet  's  run  fer  his  life,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  guess  I  '11  go  ter  bed." 

Gran'sir  had  already  gone.  Perhaps  he  thought  it 
wise  to  leave  the  two.  But  he  said  he  would  take 
his  fiddle  and  hear  it  answer  the  storm,  after  a  way 
he  had  of  laying  it  on  the  other  pillow,  against  his 
ear,  while  its  half-guessed  murmurings  filled  him 
with  a  sort  of  rapture,  as  if  he  listened  to  a  voice 
long  silent,  or  Nature  were  whispering  to  him  under 
her  breath  what  others  never  heard. 

The  wind  had  risen  at  dusk,  and  the  storm  pressed 
against  the  house  like  a  giant  shoulder,  every  now 
and  then  sending  a  shudder  against  its  last  timber. 
Kitty  had  always  an  unexplained  terror  of  storm  by 
night.  The  invisible  force  moving  mightily  through 
the  dark  seemed  some  supernatural  enemy.  She 
wanted  then  the  shelter  of  Seth's  courage,  and  to  lie 
close,  close,  her  face  hid  in  his  sleeve.  It  added  to 
her  sense  of  injury  that  to-night  they  could  not  be 
friendly.  She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cold 
window-pane  and  saw  the  snowflakes  drift  by  the 
lane  of  light  like  sparks  of  fire,  with  a  feeling  of  be- 
ing out  in  all  the  bitterness  of  the  blast. 

"I  'm  glad  I  ain't  fond  of  her  yit  —  not  so  very 
much,"  she  murmured.  "  I  s'pose  I  got  ter  give  in." 
The  snow-laden  gusts  made  her  tremble  with  a  re- 
doubled sense  of  her  impotence.  "To  send  the  little 


An  Old  Fiddler  169 

thin'  out  alone  ! ''  she  sobbed.  "  Wal,  I  got  ter  give 
in."  She  warmed  the  baby's  milk  again,  and  laid 
her  back  in  the  clothes-basket,  and  shut  the  kittens 
down-cellar,  and  sealed  the  mouse-crack  with  a  piece 
of  soap,  and  put  out  the  light.  A  moon  was  rising 
behind  the  storm,  and  with  her  last  look  a  great 
white  ghost  outside  seemed  to  be  moving  on  and  on, 
forever  on.  "O  Lord  in  heaven,"  she  whispered, 
*'  if  I  can't  have  her,  give  her  good  care  somewheres 
else !  But,  oh,  I  du  want  her,  I  du  want  her  so  ! " 
Only  a  long  rush  of  the  wind  replied.  And  then  she 
cried  herself  to  sleep,  partly  with  temper,  and  partly 
with  her  hurt.  "  I  got  ter  give  in,"  was  her  last 
thought  over  and  over.  "  The  woman  alius  has  ter 
go  to  the  wall." 

When  Seth  came  out  in  the  morning,  the  baby 
lying  there  with  wide-open  eyes,  sucking  her  little 
fist,  held  out  her  arms  joyously  as  he  struck  a  light. 
He  stealthily  covered  her  up,  for  the  little  fists  were 
blue.  All  day  long  those  eyes  haunted  him  with 
their  appeal.  The  storm  still  roared  on,  whirling 
and  white.  The  Elder  would  not  come  up  for  the 
baby,  nor  could  Seth  himself  go  to  the  woods.  He 
tunneled  a  way  to  the  bam,  fed  and  milked  the 
cows,  and  busied  himself  splitting  kindlings  and  with 
the  odd  jobs  waiting  for  such  a  day.  And  every  time 
he  came  into  the  kitchen  he  saw  his  wife  going  about 
her  work  with  that  baby  on  her  arm,  or  rocking  it  to 
sleep  in  the  low  chair,  with  an  expression  on  her 


1 70  The  Elder's  People 

face  that  would  have  been  seraphic  if  it  had  not  been 
one  of  such  injury;  or  standing  over  the  clothes- 
basket  which  she  and  Gran'sir  had  lifted  to  the  table, 
and  talking  all  sorts  of  sweet  nonsense  to  the  cooing 
little  creature  in  it.  "  It 's  the  onluckiest  storm  't 
ever  was,"  he  muttered.  "  Ef  it  don't  hold  up,  she  '11 
be  gittin'  ter  keer  fer  that  child  so  I  '11  have  to  give 
in."  Once  he  looked  into  the  basket  himself,  a  little 
gingerly,  on  tiptoe.  "  I  Tjutsht  we  could  keep  it,"  he 
said.  And  his  wife  flung  herself  down  in  the  next 
chair  and  flung  her  apron  over  her  head. 

Two  or  three  times  Gran'sir  took  the  baby  and 
rocked  her,  his  fiddle  strangely  silent  all  day.  Or  he 
carried  her  to  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  wild 
white  tempest.  "Don't  you  be  afeard  on  it,"  he 
said.   "It's  the  best  friend  you  got." 

The  tension  in  the  house  reached  Seth's  nerves.  It 
would  be  easier  to  do  in  anger  what  was  to  be  done. 
But  he  had  never  been  very  angry  in  his  life.  The 
corned  beef  and  cabbage  were  boiled  to  perfection  at 
noon- time,  and  there  was  a  blueberry  duff,  made 
with  the  fruit  Kitty  had  picked  and  canned  last  sum- 
mer ;  and  there  were  toasted  herring,  and  potatoes 
bursting  their  skins  in  the  oven,  and  brewis  and 
cider-apple  sauce  for  supper.  These  things  must  not 
move  him.  It  was  not  possible  to  feed  another  mouth, 
to  clothe  another  back.  And  this  was  the  time  to  find 
who  was  master  in  the  house.  He  could  n't  have  been 
more  silent  if  his  lips  were  padlocked. 


An  Old  Fiddler  171 

For  three  days  the  storm  raged,  wet,  wild,  and 
dreary ;  and  then  a  white  world  and  crisp  cold,  and 
sunshine  and  blue  skv,  as  if  there  had  never  been 
anything  else.  The  townsfolk  were  out  breaking 
the  road  with  the  big,  slow  teams;  and  the  Elder 
came  bustling  up  in  his  pung,  and  being  met  by 
Gran'sir  at  the  end  door,  after  a  few  moments  of 
expostulator}^  talk  on  his  part,  drove  off  as  he  had 
come.  Seth  returned  from  shoveling  a  way  to  the 
well  through  the  sparkling  drifts,  glowing  from  his 
work,  and  glad  the  affair  was  finished. 

"So  the  Elder  come  for  the  baby,"  he  said. 

"He  didn't  git  her,"  Gran'sir  replied.  And  he 
lifted  the  child  from  the  blankets. 

"Didn't— git  — her  — " 

"  Did  n't  git  her.  She  's  goin'  ter  stay  here.  She  's 
go  in'  ter  take  my  place  here.  I^m  goin'  ter  the  poor- 
'us.  I  kin  play  my  fiddle  jes'  's  well  in  one  place  as 
another,  an'  I  'm  goin'  ter  the  poor' us  an'  let  her 
stay  where  —  where  she'll  do  the  mos'  good." 

Seth  ran  his  hands  through  his  wet  curls  in  be- 
wilderment. The  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  A 
McGregor  —  the  poorhouse  — 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Gran'sir,  talk  sense !  "  he  said, 
waking. 

"  I  'm  talkin'  sense  —  horse-sense.  I  'm  talkin' jes' 
w'at  I  mean,"  said  the  old  man,  erect  and  severe. 
"  I  'm  goin'  ter  make  over  ter  the  town  w'at  the 
United  States  pays  me  fer  my  service  ter  the  war. 


1  r2  The  Elder's  People 

I  Ve  thinked  it  all  out  —  and  I  guess  I  '11  be  treated 
with  consideration  there,  an'  I  '11  hev  my  fiddle  —  " 

"  Gran'sir !  I  sh'd  think  you  was  meanin'  it !  " 

"  I  be,  sir." 
^    "You  can't   be!   It's  agin'  reason!    It's  agin' 
natur'!" 

"  I  be.  Dead  sure.  I  could  'a'  ast  the  Elder  ter  set 
me  over,  but  my  Sunday  shirt  was  to  the  wash,  an' 
Kitty  ain't  got  it  ironed  yit,  and  I  ain't  put  my  thin's 
tergether.  My  days  is  nigh  a' most  over,  an'  this  'ere 
young  un's  is  jes'  begun.  The  poor' us  don't  hurt  me, 

—  but  ef  it  don't  kill  her  it  '11  be  the  ruination  of 
her.   I  'm  sorry  to  leave  ye  —  durned  sorry —  " 

"Gran'sir!  Gran'sir!  Oh,  you  never  would!" 
cried  Kitty,  the  color  fled  from  her  cheeks,  steady- 
ing herself  by  the  back  of  the  chair  as  she  stood. 

"  We  can't  hear  to  this,  Gran'sir !  We  can't  hear 
to  this  blamed  folly !  "  said  Seth.  "  Go  away  an' 
leave  us  ?  Go  there  ?  After  all  these  years  ?  W'y,  ye 
could  n't  du  it,  Gran'sir  !  "  And  his  voice  was  shak- 
ing. "An',  fer  the  matter  o'  that,"  he  said,  as  soon 
as  he  could  speak  again,  "  we  should  n't  keep  this 
'ere  young  un  ef  you  did  go.  You're  wuth  —  wuth 

—  forty  young  uns !   This   baby  's  goin'  where  she 
belongs,  anj^vays." 

"  Then  there 's  all  the  more  cause  fer  me  ter  go 
tew.  I  '11  go  ter  take  keer  on  her.  I  ain't  so  old  or 
dodderin'  yit  that  I  hev  ter  hev  a  gardeen  or  can't 
du  w'at  I  'm  a  mind  ter.  And  ef  the  little  creetur  's 


A71  Old  Fiddler  173 

goin'  ter  the  poor' us,  w'y,  I  'm  goin'  tew,  fer  ter  take 
keer  on  her.  I  'm  takin'  this  'ere  little  orphin  fer  my 
darter.  An'  her  name's  McGregor.  An'  my  child 
can't  go  ter  the  poor' us  and  I  stay  to  hum,"  said 
Gran'sir.  "  An'  there  it  is." 

Seth  stared  at  the  old  man  a  moment,  and  then  at 
his  wife,  his  face  scarlet,  his  voice  gone.  "  That  set- 
tles it,  I  s'pose,"  at  last  he  said.  "Naterally  you 
don't  go.  I  give  in.  Kitty  ! "  he  cried,  "  was  you 
knowin'  ter  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  'a'  dreamed  it,"  she  answered, 
white  and  trembling.  "Oh  no,  no,  no!  But  ef  the 
baby 's  boun'  ter  stay,  I  —  I  can't  help  it  —  I  'm  — 
I'm  glad,  I  'm  glad,  I  'm  glad  !  " 

"  I  bet  you  be  !  " 

"  I  meant  it,  tew ;  I  vum  I  did !  "  said  Gran'sir, 
as  he  turned  away.  Presently  he  came  back.  "  Ef 
you  want  the  child,"  he  said,  with  a  magnanimous 
air,  "  she 's  yours,  o'  course." 

"  Oh,  I  du,  I  du !  "  cried  Kitty. 

Seth  looked  at  them  a  minute  longer.  "  Wal,  I  '11 
take  a  bite  o'  pie  an'  some  cold  meat,  an'  be  off  ter 
the  woods,"  he  said. 

"  Wat  time  '11  you  be  back  ?  "  she  asked,  won- 
dering a  little  at  his  manner. 

"  I  do'  know 's  I  '11  ever  come  back,"  he  said. 

She  ran  and  snatched  the  baby  from  Gran'sir  and 
held  her  up  in  the  broad  sunbeam  that  made  a  glory 
about  her  in  the  brown  shadows  of  the  old  room. 


1 74  The  Elder's  People 

"Oh,  Seth!"  she  cried.  "It's  oum!  It's  ourn! 
You  ain't  sorrj^^,  be  you  ?  " 

The  radiant  little  creature  springing  in  her  arms, 
all  unconscious  of  the  turning  of  fate,  held  out  both 
hands  to  him  and  screamed  as  if  with  pleasure  at  his 
ruddy  face,  his  blazing  blue  eyes,  his  red  curls. 

"  Take  it,  Seth.  Oh,  Seth,  du  take  her !  It 's  our 
little  gal !  "  And  she  held  it  so  close  to  him  that  he 
had  to  put  his  arm  out.  The  baby  reached  forward 
and  grasped  his  hair,  and  wiped  a  little  wet  mouth 
over  his  face,  and  something  unawares  made  him 
tighten  his  arm  and  hold  her  close  to  his  heart. 

"  Kitty,"  he  said,  "  there 's  alius  trouble  in  a  house 
w'en  a  baby  comes.  I  guess  it 's  over  now.  She 's  got 
here  all  right.  Wat  you  wanter  call  her  !  " 

"  Amanda  Seraphina !  "  exclaimed  Kitty,  rap- 
turously, "  I  mind  Elder  sayin'  wunst  thet  'Mandy 
meant  '  she  must  be  loved.'  An'  Seraphina 's  jest  a 
little  angel ! " 

"  Sho  !  I  shan't  hev  her  called  no  sech  outlandish 
names.  Too  sweet  ter  be  hullsome.  She  's  Keturah. 
That's  the  best  name  there  is.  I  shan't  hev  her 
called  out  of  it !  "  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

"  Seth,"  his  wife  said,  timidly,  "  you  ain't  bearin* 
Gran'sir  no  hard  feelin's  ?  " 

"  'T  was  ruther  rough,  warn't  it  ?  —  the  way  he 
tuk.  But  I  guess  the'  warn't  no  other.  Fact  is,  I 
wanted  her  all  the  time,  Kitty." 


An  Old  Fiddler  175 

"  You  're  t\vicet  as  good 's  I  be ! "  And  as  she 
could  n't  get  at  her  apron,  she  wiped  her  eyes  with 
his  hand.  "  Come  to  mother,  darlin' ! "  she  said, 
shyly,  with  a  quick  look  at  him.  But  the  baby  turned 
and  hid  her  little  head  in  Seth's  neck,  and  his  con- 
quest was  complete. 

An  ecstatic  afternoon  was  Kitty's,  lining  the  big 
basket,  Seth  helping,  all  other  work  forgotten,  and 
even  this  suspended  once  in  a  while  for  five  minutes' 
play  with  the  new  treasure,  or  with  running  to  take 
from  her  remorseless  grasp  one  of  the  kittens,  while 
Gran'sir  gave  her  the  other.  But  by  nightfall  things 
were  more  quiet.  Kitty  sat  then  by  the  fire,  holding 
the  baby  across  her  knee  and  rubbing  the  pretty  bare 
back  and  active  legs. 

"  I  never  thought  I  'd  come  ter  say  in'  a  good 
word  fer  a  fiddle,"  she  was  thinking.  "  But  ef 
Gran'sir  'd  'a'  b'en  the  other  sort  he  would  n't  'a'  put 
himself  about  so  ter  keep  this  baby.  He  would  n't 
'a'  felt  fer  the  little  thin'  sent  out  in  the  cold,  alone 
in  the  world  —  oh,  precious  one,  you  alius  got  me, 
you  alius  got  father  an'  me  !  He  would  n't  'a'  knowed 
w'at  I  felt.  I  do'  know  but  w'at  maybe  there  's  a  power 
o'  sympathy  in  a  fiddle.  P'r'aps  it  takes  you  inter 
folks'  hearts.  P'r'aps  there  's  jes'  's  many  fiddles  in 
heaven  as  there  be  harps.  An'  Gran'sir  '11  be  all 
ready."  She  put  on  the  baby's  nightclothes,  and 
fed  it,  and  sat  gently  rocking,  ineffably  contented. 
"  Gran'sir,"  she  said,  "  I  was  thinkin'  you  could  be 


1  re  The  Elder's  People 

a  lot  of  help  ef  you  took  to  it.  I  would  n't  wonder 
but  you  could  play  this  child  to  sleep  nights." 

"  I  would  n't  wonder,"  said  Gran'sir. 

"  You  said  you  'd  keep  the  new  fiddle,  the  Cap'n's 
fiddle,  fer  a  fit  occasion.  Don't  ye  think  this  is  an 
occasion  —  the  little  gal 's  gittin'  a  home,  less'n  our 
gittin'  the  blessin'  of  her  ?  " 

Gran'sir  had  tuned  the  violin,  and  the  baby  was 
gurgling  with  delight  as  she  listened  to  the  stirring 
tones  of  "  Rob  Roy  McGregor,  oh,"  when  a  sound 
of  bell-ringing  came  far  and  faint  up  the  valley. 

"I  guess  there's  a  fire,"  said  Seth,  stepping  out 
to  see. 

"  Or  else  it 's  ringin'  fer  evenin'  meetin',"  said 
Kitty.   "  But  't  ain't  Wednesday." 

**  It 's  Chris'mus  eve,"  said  Gran'sir. 

"And  I'd  forgot!" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Oh,  Gran'sir,"  said  Kitty  then,  "  what  a  present 
you  've  give  me  !  My  own  little  daughter !  The 
dear!  Where  do  you  s'pose  her  soul  was  afore  it 
come  here  ?  A  little  child  does  bring  ye  close  to  the 
givin'  o'  God,  don't  it,  now  ?  This  is  the  night  that 
Christ  was  bom,  baby,  and  it 's  the  night  that  you 
was  bom  fer  me." 

"  Christ  is  bom  into  every  house,"  said  Gran'sir, 
"  w'en  a  little  child  is  born  there." 

The  violin  began  again  a  silver  strain;  the  child 
sighed  itself  off  to  sleep  with  a  cooing  sound  like 


An  Old  Fiddler  177 

song.  Seth  came  in  and  bent  over  the  basket  with 
Kitty.  It  was  full  of  wonder  and  a  sweet  awe,  this 
new  life  that  had  come  to  them. 

They  lifted  the  basket  between  them,  the  husband 
and  wife,  and  went  to  their  bedroom,  whose  door 
had  hours  ago  been  set  open,  and  Gran'sir  put  out 
the  light.  And  long  between  waking  and  sleeping 
the  mother  heard,  as  if  it  breathed  out  of  Paradise, 
the  murmur  of  the  violin,  while  the  old  man,  watched 
by  the  bright  eyes  of  the  little  mouse,  who  had  bur- 
rowed a  way  through  his  crack  again,  sat  in  the 
kitchen,  where  the  moon,  shining  on  the  white  world 
outside,  threw  a  mysterious  glow,  and  bending  his 
head  lovingly  over  his  strings,  he  played  softly  the 
old,  old  air : 

**  Sing,  holy  night  and  happy  morn. 
For  unto  us  a  child  is  born  ; 
The  Prince  of  Peace,  O  blessed  birth, 
Has  come  to  make  a  heaven  of  earth!'* 


THE  BLESSING  CALLED  PEACE 


VIII 

TTie  Blessing'  Called  Peace 

ELDER  PERRY  was  very  unhappy.  He  had  a 
quarrel  with  the  Lord.  And  to  be  wroth  with 
one  we  love  doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain, 
we  are  told.  All  his  life,  he  said,  he  had  loved  the 
Lord ;  he  had  served  and  honored  Him,  had  had  high 
joy  in  communion  with  Him.  And  the  Lord  had 
forsaken  him.  He  had  implored  the  life  of  Davy  — 
the  Lord  had  not  listened.  The  laughing,  lovely  lit- 
tle creature  had  gone  over  into  the  dark  unknown  — 
oh,  like  a  white  butterfly  fluttering  in  the  night ! 

The  night  ?  The  dark  unknown  ?  The  Elder  knew 
there  should  be  nothing  dark  in  it  to  him,  filled  as  it 
was  with  the  divine  personality.  But  robbed  of  his 
child  —  so  flagrant  a  violation  of  love  —  although 
he  went  on  with  his  duties,  he  felt  that  he  was  liv- 
ing a  lie. 

Loss  of  Davy  made  the  undercurrent  of  his  life. 
It  was  the  child's  starlike  eyes  that  he  saw  in  the 
stars  of  the  midnight  blue ;  the  petals  of  a  rose  wore 
the  velvet  of  the  child's  cheek ;  music  brought  back 
the  lilting  tones ;  the  stir  of  the  poplar  leaves  gave 
him,  with  a  sort  of  agony,  the  patter  of  little  feet. 
Two  tiny  shoes  tore  his  heart  like  the  trampling  of 
wild  horses.  Scraps  of  paper  fell  from  his  sermon 


182  The  Elder" s  People 

book  where  the  boy  had  drawn  a  rude  head  with 
something  that  meant  wings,  as  if  playing  with  fore- 
knowledge of  companions  he  was  soon  to  have. 
When  the  first  snow  fell,  it  was  only  a  compulsion 
of  decency  that  hindered  the  Elder  from  lying  down 
beside  the  little  mound  and  shielding  it  with  his  arms. 
Did  not  his  wife  remember  when  once  he  spoke  irri- 
tably and  the  child  came,  with  his  little  lip  trem- 
bling, and  held  up  his  arms  imploringly,  his  blue 
eyes  full  of  tears,  as  if  begging  to  be  forgiven  for 
what  he  had  not  done  ?  Could  she  not  see  him 
when  looking  up  at  the  sky  in  an  ecstasy  as  if  it 
were  only  a  film  between  him  and  God  ?  It  cut  him 
to  the  quick  that  the  child  should  be  wronged  of  his 
sweet  rights.  Life,  his  life,  had  been  given  to  him, 
and  now  its  bright  days,  its  struggles  and  victories 
and  joys,  were  wrested  away. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  less  bitter  if  Davy 
had  not  died  just  when  he  was  to  walk  in  the  pro- 
cession of  children  singing  "March  on,  Christian 
Soldiers."  There  should  be  no  more  festivals  in  his 
little  meeting-house  while  the  stars  wheeled  in  the 
sky! 

It  was  a  weary  winter.  The  spring  brought  him 
no  sense  of  the  upspringing  of  sod  to  a  higher  life  in 
grass  and  flower.  The  orchards  that  once  made  the 
earth  seem  winged  gave  him  no  rapture;  he  saw  no 
loveliness  in  the  slim  white  birch  shaking  her  green 
gauzes  about  her.  The  summer,  that  had  seemed  the 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  183 

visible  expression  of  God  alive  in  his  world,  was 
only  the  untended  flame  of  a  forsaken  altar. 

One  evening,  Miss  Mahala  —  who,  as  you  know, 
often  played  the  part  of  colleague  in  plain  clothes  — • 
having  stayed  to  tea,  was  telling  of  a  young  robin 
that  fell  from  the  nest  last  spring.  Puss  Pharaoh 
looking  on,  his  green  eyes  big  as  blazes;  and  when 
she  picked  it  up  for  its  safety  the  parent  robins  had 
flown  at  her  as  if  she  were  ruining  their  nest.  It  was 
the  last  straw.  The  exasperated  Elder,  quick  at  ap- 
plication, uttered  a  terrible  word,  and  stalked  from 
the  room. 

'^  Ain't  that  a^v^ul !  "  whispered  Miss  Mahala, 
breathlessly.  "  Mis'  Perry,"  she  added,  bending  over 
solemnly,  "this  goes  no  furder.  Never —  Sort  of  a 
useless  word,  an^^vays.  The  poor  man  wam't  never 
learned  to  swear.  You  have  a  hard  time  on't,  dear 
soul.  But  I  guess  the  worm  suffers  some  gittin'  its 
wings." 

Of  course  all  this  distressed  the  Elder's  wife.  She 
felt  that  he  did  not  deserve  to  be  told  of  the  Angel 
of  Blessing  hovering  over  the  house.  At  any  rate, 
the  right  moment  did  not  come  for  telling  him.  But 
she  was  a  loving  person.  "Dear,"  she  said,  "you 
are  not  well.  You  must  rest  awhile.  Drop  every- 
thing and  go  to  your  mother.  She  always  helps  you." 
And,  after  some  murmuring,  the  Elder  went. 

His  mother's  house  was  forty  miles  beyond  the 
mountains.  The  roundabout  stage-coach  did  not  suit 


1 84  The  Elder's  People 

his  mood;  he  would  go  afoot.  Once  his  knapsack 
and  stick  would  have  meant  scrip  and  staff.  They 
did  not  now.  All  was  matter-of-fact.  He  would 
spend  the  night  at  Giles  Gonne's  cabin,  and  proceed 
next  day. 

The  woods  were,  ripe  with  color,  but  the  Elder 
was  blind  to  their  glory.  A  high-bush  blueberry, 
before  which  he  would  have  felt  as  if  it  were  the 
burning  bush  itself,  was  no  more  that  day  than  any 
wayside  weed.  He  plodded  on  wearily,  something 
spent  when  he  reached  Giles  Gonne's  cabin,  on  a  shelf 
of  rock  where  the  road  wound  below  with  a  seldom 
wayfarer. 

Giles  lay  on  a  tumultuous  bed,  with  a  burning 
fever.  "  Come  in,  whoever  you  be,  an'  gimme  a 
drink  o'  water !  "  was  his  greeting. 

"Why,  Giles,  you  sick  ?  "  said  the  Elder. 

"  Dog-gone  sick,"  replied  the  thick  voice.  "That 
you,  sir  ?  Come  up  'cause  I  was  sick  ?  Then  fetch 
some  cold  water,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

The  Elder  brought  water  from  the  spring  and  was 
presently  bathing  the  man,  smoothing  the  bed,  and 
looking  over  his  kit  for  the  medicines  that  he  always 
carried  on  his  ministrations.  "  Reg'lar  doctor,"  said 
Giles,  feebly,  "  body  and  soul.  Hev  ter  be.  Good 
on  ye.  I  do'  know  's  ye  know  I  took  the  dipthery  to 
your  Davy.  No  ?  " 

The  Elder  stood  still  with  horror. 

"  Gilly  —  now,  Gilly,  daddy's  boy  —  be  still," 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  '  185 

the  delirium  remounting.  "  Daddy  '11  go  down  to 
Salt  Water  for  the  doctor's  stuff.  No  medicine  here, 
ye  know.  No  nothin'  here!  Lock's  kind  o'  rusty. 
Guess  I  '11  look  back  an'  see  if  he 's  stirrin'.  No  — 
he  don't  sense  nothin'.  Poor  Gilly — never  did 
sense  thin's.  Oh,  gimme  some  water,  some  col'  tea, 
quick,  I'm  bumin'  up  alive!  So  was  Gilly,  poor 
lamb  !  Wal,  wal,"  he  said  presently,  tossing  off  the 
clothes,  "  it 's  a  footsore  way.  I  'm  pretty  well  torn 
up,  Mis'  Perry,  a-tumblin'  an'  a-stumblin'  in  bush 
an'  brier,"  he  cried,  after  a  moment,  falling  back. 
"  Oh,  that  '11  be  good,  ma'am,  ef  ye  can  spare  it.  I 
won't  hev  to  go  on,  then.  It 's  a  stretch  to  Salt  Water, 
even  ef  I  got  a  lift.  An'  time 's  money.  Time  's  life 
an'  death !  That  your  boy  ?  Davy  his  name  ?  Come 
here,  little  lad,  let  me  heft  ye.  Light's  a  feather. 
Gimme  a  kiss  for  Gilly  and  I  '11  let  ye  go.  Got  the 
face  of  an  angel.  Says  his  prayers  ?  Tell  him  to  pray 
fer  Gilly  —  oh,  poor  Gilly!  Blame  these  briers! 
There 's  that  log  acrost  the  way  ag'in !  That 's  a 
nasty  fall  —  ain't  broke  nothin',  hev  I  ?  Make  haste, 
oh,  make  haste!  There's  the  door  —  where 's  the 
key?  Oh,  yes,  here.  Gilly!  Gee,  but  it's  dark! 
Gilly  !  Oh,  my  God,  Gilly 's  dead  !  "  And  then  came 
brief  stupor. 

So  that  was  the  way  the  infection  came  to  Dav^^  ? 
This  man's  action  had  killed  his  boy.  But  it  was 
hardly  a  conscious  thought.  No  idea  of  good  to  them 
that  despitefuUy  use  you  followed.  The  Elder  sprang 


186  The  Elder" s  People 

to  the  help  of  one  who  needed  him.  As  soon  as  he 
had  cooled  the  fever  ever  so  slightly  he  milked  the 
cow  and  gathered  the  eggs,  had  Giles  drink  the  warm 
milk,  and  made  his  own  supper  ready.  Then  he 
sponged  off  the  patient  again  and  prepared  for  the 
night. 

There  were  three  nights  without  sleep,  except  for 
a  nap  caught  standing  —  terrible  nights,  with  raving 
and  profanity  that  made  the  Elder's  heart  stop  beat- 
ing. "  I  never  knew  you  swore,  Giles,"  he  said,  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  Did  n't  ye  ?  "  said  Giles.  "  Then  you  hear  me 
now."  And  the  Elder's  blood  ran  cold. 

"  Where  's  your  wife,  Giles  ? "  he  asked  in  a  lucid 
moment. 

"  I  know  where  she  'd  orter  be,"  cried  Giles. 
**Buyin'  ribbons  fer  a  dance,  an'  Gilly  sick  then!  " 

"  But  she  has  been  home  since  ?  " 

"  Off  an'  on  she  ain't."  And  after  a  moment,  "  Gol 
dam  her,  she  knowed  I  can't  read  writin' ! "  And 
the  air  became  so  blue  the  Elder  had  to  go  out  for  a 
breath  of  the  blowing  north  wind. 

The  raving  went  on,  shrill  and  incoherent,  grow- 
ing faint,  till  at  last  came  deep  sleep.  And  then  the 
Elder  was  on  his  knees  praying  with  all  his  might 
for  Giles's  salvation. 

Giles  slept  through  the  night  and  late  the  next 
day.  The  fever  was  gone,  his  strength  gone  too. 
"Elder,"  he  whispered  faintly,  as  the  Elder  went 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  187 

to   give    him    nourishment,    "do   idiot    bo}'s    have 
souls  ?  " 

"Of  course  they  do.  That  is  — "  began  the  sur- 
prised Elder. 

"  Wal,  if  Gilly  had  a  soul,  he  's  somewheres  where 
I  must  go  an'  take  care  on  him.  They  won't  sepa- 
rate him  an'  me,  Elder  ?  "  looking  up  with  piteous, 
wan  eyes. 

"They  can't,"  said  the  Elder.  "What  belongs  to 
you,  you  will  have."  And  then  a  sudden  inner  light 
flashed  blindingly  upon  the  Elder. 

"  I  heern  ye  prayin'  fer  my  soul.  So  I  guess  I  'm 
safe  to  go  fer  Gilly.  I  'd  like  —  ter  see  Gilly  with  his 
soul  show  in'." 

And  that  was  all.  The  Elder  labored  with  stimu- 
lants, and  whey,  and  many  a  wrestling  prayer.  But 
Giles  slipped  out  of  life  as  if  the  tide  down  at  the 
great  river  mouth  ebbing  out  to  sea  drew  the  soul 
with  it. 

With  his  capable  hands  the  Elder  did  what  was 
necessary.  Then  he  read  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shep- 
herd," if  perfunctorily,  and  sang  his  customary-  psalm, 
and  offered  his  petition,  and  trod  down  the  sod.  And 
he  packed  his  small  kit  again  and  was  ready  to  be  off. 
It  was  just  then  that  a  peddler's  cart  came  along 
below  and  left  a  woman  whom  he  recognized  as  Mrs. 
Gonne,  who,  loaded  with  boxes,  climbed  the  path 
and  went  into  the  house.  She  came  out  again  pres- 
ently. 


188  The  Elder's  People 

"Where's  Mr.  Gonne  ?  "  she  demanded. 

The  Elder  pointed  at  the  resting-place. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!  Both  on  'em!"  she  cried. 
**  An'  me  here  all  alone  !  An'  I  gotter  to  go  an'  buy 
black !  Hev  you  smoked  out  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 
"You  needn't  to  look  at  me  that  way.  I  went  off 
so  's  not  to  ketch  it,  and  it  'd  be  redic'lousef  I  come 
back  an'  ketched  it,  arter  all! " 

"  You  would  deserve  it,"  said  the  Elder. 

"  I  'd  like  ter  know  who  you  be  ter  talk  so  to  a 
widder  that 's  jes'  laid  away  her  only  husband  an' 
her  child!"  she  declared.  "  Ef  you  ever  lost  — 
you  'd  orter  sense  how  I  'm  feelin'  ef  you  ever  buried 
a  boy !  " 

To  compare  that  idiot  boy  and  his  own  heavenly 
child !  The  Elder's  wrath  ran  high.  "  Woman  !  " 
he  roared,  but  stopped,  remembering  that  Gilly,  free 
among  the  dead,  might  now  be  all  that  Davy  was. 

"You  needn't  *  woman'  me!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Gonne.  "  I  'm  no  more  woman  'n  other  folks  be ! 
Oh,  that  empty  cheer !  Oh !  "  she  said,  looking  up 
with  her  pale,  wide-open  eyes.  "  It  brings  you  dret- 
fle  near  the  black  outside.  I  'm  scairt  mos'  to  death ! 
Oh,  say  —  I  know  I  done  wrong.  But  there  's  wuss 
an'  wiser  folks  'n  me.  I  was  made  kind  o'  light. 
P'r'aps  we  ain't  all  born  with  souls.  Giles  said  his'n 
come  to  him ;  it  come  with  a  buzz.  P'r'aps  I  hed  n't 
no  soul  ter  give  Gilly.  He  looked  at  me  reproachful 
like  till  I  hatter  skip.  I  ain't  took  thin's  in  yet.  But 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  189 

don't  you  leave  me  here !  Jes'  think  o'  me  here 
awake  in  the  dark  night.  I  'd  go  deestracted.  Say,  do 
you  b'lieve  in  hell  ? " 

"  Hell,"  said  the  Elder,  feeling  as  if  he  had  met 
the  Scarlet  Lady  in  person,  "  hell  is  absence  from 
God." 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment.  "  Then  I  Ve  been 
there  all  my  life ! "  she  said.  And  in  the  instant  the 
Elder  felt  that  since  Davy's  death  he  had  been  there, 
too. 

Directly  afterward  he  forgot  himself  —  here  was 
work  for  him.  "  I  'm  going  on  down  to  my  mother's," 
he  said.  "  Mrs.  Perry,  in  the  Byways.  If  you  like, 
you  can  come  with  me." 

"  Mis'  Perry.  I  'm  knowin'  to  her.  Her  speckle 
hen  laid  away  oncet,  an'  Mis'  Perr^'  would  n't  shet 
her  in,  cause  the  hen  'd  be  feelin'  bad  about  the  eggs 
out  there.  Be  you  her  son  ?  Be  you  Elder  Perry  ?  I 
heem  tell  on  ye.  No,  no,"  she  said,  retreating,  "  I 
guess  I  'd  ruther  stay  here." 

"  You  will  come  with  me,"  said  the  Elder.  "  God 
forgive  me  for  doubting  it,  but,  if  you  have  n't  a 
soul,  my  mother  will  put  one  into  you." 

"I —  I  do'  know  ef  I  want  one." 

"I  do,"  said  the  Elder.  "Come.  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  being  obeyed,"  he  added,   sternly. 

She  went  into  the  house,  and,  opening  one  of  her 
boxes,  took  from  a  hat  a  bunch  of  impossible  roses, 
went  over  and  divided  them  between  the  two  mounds, 


190  The  Elder" s  People 

securing  them  with  some  stones;  and  then,  having 
made  a  small  parcel,  as  if  she  must  not  break  the 
Elder's  habit  of  being  obeyed,  she  followed  him 
down. 

It  was  noon  of  the  last  November  day,  the  air 
full  of  lingering  Indian  summer  balsams,  hoar-frosts 
overlying  the  hollows,  and  purple  hazes  hanging 
round  the  hills.  To  the  Elder,  lost  in  thought,  the 
beauty  passed  like  a  phantom.  They  stopped  at  a 
racing  brook  to  drink  from  the  Elder's  folding  cup. 
"Lord!  Elder,"  said  Mrs.  Gonne,  "ain't  you  got 
nothin'  stronger  'n  that  ? " 

In  days  before  his  quarrel  this  traversing  of  wood- 
land ways  would  have  been  the  Elder's  joy.  He 
would  have  seen  the  heavenly  hand  in  every  bud 
pushing  off  the  dead  leaf.  In  every  withering  tassel 
of  barberries  he  would  have  seen  provision  for  the 
birds ;  with  every  bank  of  drifting  mist  reaching  the 
sun  and  smitten  with  white  glory  he  would  have 
sung,  "  The  clouds  in  heaven  praise  Thee ! "  But 
here  he  was  blind  to  beauty,  robbed  of  his  old  hap- 
piness, walking  in  company  with  what  seemed  the 
sin  of  the  world  incarnate. 

As  they  neared  the  village  a  dog  ran  out ;  he  was 
caught  by  his  master.  "  The  old  feller  flies  out  at 
ye  every  time  he  sees  ye,"  said  the  man. 

"  I  hurt  him  once  without  meaning  to.  Yes,  he 
flies  out,  but  I  forgive  him,"  said  the  Elder,  good- 
humoredly. 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  191 

"The  dog  ain't  forgive,"  said  Mrs.  Gonne. 

Something  smote  the  Elder  like  a  lash.  "  Am  I 
a  dog  that  I  should  do  this  thing  ? "  he  would  have 
cried. 

The  Elder's  mother  was  as  well  versed  in  old 
ballads  as  in  old  hjTnns. 

**  I  've  been  in  the  wild-wood,  mother;  make  my  bed  soon. 
For  I  'm  sick  at  the  heart  and  I  fain  would  lie  doun,'* 

she  remembered,  when  her  son  asked  to  go  to  his 
old  room.  It  had  seemed  to  the  Elder  that  not  only 
ev  ery  bone  in  his  body  ached,  but  his  soul  itself. 
"  It 's  only  a  little,"  she  said. 

"  It 's  the  little  things  that  count,"  said  her  son, 
bitterly.   "  An  idiot  boy,  a  dog  !  " 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  while  Mrs.  Gonne  in 
the  kitchen,  having  declared  she  would  as  soon  sing 
hymns  as  love  songs,  —  unwitting  that  she  was  to 
sing  them  there  the  rest  of  her  life,  —  was  singing 
the  only  one  she  knew,  in  a  way  to  make  the  cat's 
back  stand  up  straight.  And  then,  after  the  old  cus- 
tom, the  son  told  his  mother  all. 

"  Giles  had  done  you  a  deadly  wrong,  you  felt," 
said  the  mother.  "Through  him  you  lost  your  boy. 
Yet  you  tended  him,  you  comforted  him,  you  did 
not  spare  yourself.  He  was  thirst}^  and  you  gave  him 
drink,  he  was  hungered  and  you  fed  him.  Do  you 
think  God  is  less  good  than  you  ?  "  And  with  other 
words,  gentle  and  maybe  wise,  she  brought  him  rest 
as  since  time  began  has  been  the  way  of  mothers.  / 


192  The  Elder's  People 

She  used  no  more  arguments.  Perhaps  she  could 
not  have  done  so,  anyway.  But  Miss  Mahala,  some 
time  before,  had  taken  the  stage-coach  to  visit  an 
acquaintance,  and  had  slipped  over  in  her  friend's 
chaise  to  see  the  Elder's  mother,  whom  she  knew. 
"  So,  you  see,"  she  said,  having  told  her  story,  "that 
't  ain't  no  use  a-firin'  off  argymence.  It  ain't  wuth 
yer  breath  to  be  a-tellin'  him  the  'arth  wam't  good 
enough  fer  Davy,  or  that  he  's  the  father  of  an  angel. 
He  'd  on'y  want  ter  fly  away  inter  some  other  climax 
an'  be  at  rest  from  ye.  Fact  is,  he  's  got  a  quar'l 
with  the  Lord,  an'  he  's  jes'  like  a  clock  that 's  wound 
too  tight.  You  gotter  help  him  run  down.  He 's  a 
prophet  to  the  soul  if  there  ever  was  one;  but  I 
s'pose  prophets  are  made  of  dust,  an'  go  back  to  it, 
and  shed  consid'able  along  the  way.  His  wife  was 
right  —  " 

"  She  always  is,"  said  the  mother. 

"She  said  you'd  fix  him  up.  I  guess  the  Lord 
knowed  what  he  was  about  w'en  he  made  mothers. 
Elder  was  tellin'  us  an  old  story  of  somebuddy  in  a 
fight,  an'  every  time  he  fell  on  mother-'arth  he  got 
fresh  strength  from  her.  Don't  seem  exac'ly  even 
that  Pharaoh  should  be  all  I  —  But  I  won't  com- 
plain. Pharaoh's  very  companionable.  Wal,  I 
thought  I  'd  let  ye  know  how  the  land  laid.  Snow 's 
held  off  late.  Unfortun't'  fer  the  grass.  But  natur' 
ushully  makes  thin's  right  in  the  long  run." 

Nature  does  —  in  her  own  time.  The  Elder  had 


77?^'  Blessing  Called  Peace  193 

thought  that  a  couple  of  weeks  in  his  old  room  un- 
der the  eaves,  where  the  snow  filtered  over  his  cov- 
erlet, of  being  a  boy  again,  thinking  no  thoughts, 
feeling  no  cares,  a  couple  of  weeks  of  his  mother's 
daily  life  and  conversation,  of  the  healing  of  her 
hand,  would  bring  back  all  the  fresher  currents  of 
life.  But,  being  made  of  dust,  as  Miss  Mahala  said, 
he  did  not  escape  the  effect  of  wind  and  weather  on 
dust,  the  effect  of  his  experience  and  exposure,  and  a 
raging  illness  came  to  bum  the  dross  out  of  him, 
and  its  consequent  weakness  held  him  housed  for 
many  weeks.  The  Conference  supplied  his  place  for 
the  time,  as  Miss  Mahala  asked  them.  But  one 
night  the  Elder  waked  to  see  the  day-star  shining  in 
the  east  like  a  risen  spirit.  "  '  Canst  thou  bind  the 
sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades  ? '  "  he  said  to  him- 
self. And  when  the  light  in  his  mother's  eyes  shone 
upon  his  face,  "  ^  I  will  not  leave  you  comfortless ; 
I  will  come  to  you/  "  he  said  again. 

The  bells  of  the  stage  which  brought  the  Elder 
back  by  the  main  road  —  the  wild-wood  way  being 
still  deep  with  the  early  April  snow  —  rang  all  the 
time  with  the  tune, 

<*  Traveler,  lo,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Lo,  the  Son  of  God  is  come  !  " 

They  passed  many  lonely  dwellings  where  happy 
children  ran  to  the  windows,  or  where  they  trimmed 
some  little  church  with  Easter  lilies.  He  left  the  con- 
veyance at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  went  over  to  the 


194  The  Elder's  People 

old  burying-ground.  The  trees  there,  as  he  passed, 
shed  over  him  showers  of  sifted  silver.  The  great 
fir-tree  swayed  in  the  wind  and  stretched  a  dark  and 
soft  protecting  bough  across  the  low  bed.  The  full 
paschal  moon  hung  above,  balanced  on  broad  wings 
of  light,  like  a  brooding  mother.  But  Davy  was  not 
there. 

The  Elder  went  up  the  hill.  There  were  lights 
about  the  house,  and  a  murmur  of  voices  as  he  opened 
the  door.  Miss  Mahala  met  him  with  a  joyful  out- 
cry. "  Would  you  take  care  of  this  ? "  he  asked, 
handing  her  the  pot  of  Easter  lilies  he  had  brought 
from  his  mother's. 

"  Cert'in,"  she  said.  "  An'  you  '11  find  an  Easter 
gift  in  there  better 'n  lilies  or  burnt  ofF'rin's,"  she 
added,  closing  the  door  of  his  wife's  room  behind  him. 

That  his  wife  should  be  in  bed  and  ill  was  grievous; 
but  his  exaltation  almost  put  that  fact  out  of  sight. 
His  heart  was  too  full  even  for  the  customary  greet- 
ings. "  Ellen,"  he  whispered,  bending  over  the  pillow, 
"  it  is  all  over.  I  have  no  more  quarrel  with  the 
Lord.  It  is  Easter  —  the  Lord  has  risen  —  He  has 
risen  in  my  heart.  God  has  forgiven  me." 

"  And  have  you  forgiven  God  ?  "  she  sighed. 

"I  have  given  Him  Davy,"  he  said.  "My  soul 
and  your  soul." 

"  And  your  little  daughter's  soul,  then,"  said  his 
wife,  drawing  down  an  edge  of  flannel,  and  showing 
the  tiny  being  asleep  beside  her. 


The  Blessing  Called  Peace  195 

The  Elder  fell  on  his  knees,  hiding  his  face  in  the 
bed.  "His  mercy  endureth  forever !  "  he  half  sobbed. 

His  wife  lifted  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  head. 
"  The  child's  name,"  she  said,  with  an  indescribable 
accent  of  joy  in  her  tone, "  the  child's  name  is  Peace." 


FATHER  JAMES 


IX 

Father  James 

THE  broad  shoulders  were  bent  a  little  more 
that  morning  than  toil  had  bent  them,  and  the 
sun-browned,  many-lined  face  wore  an  apprehensive 
look  which  troubled  the  kindly  eyes  regarding  it. 

"Ef  I  hed  n't  b'en  so  shore  of  her,  mother,  in  the 
fust  place,"  said  the  farmer,  "  I  wouldn't  ever  have 
let  her  gone," —  biting  at  the  grass  straw  in  his 
hand. 

"  She  'd  hev  gone  just  the  same,"  said  his  wife. 
"  Wen  a  girl  sets  her  mind  on  schoolin',  she  's 
boun'  ter  have  it,  ef  the  angel  with  the  flamin'  sword 
Stan's  in  the  way." 

"Wal,  she's  got  it." 

"  Yes ;  and  ef  it 's  the  right  sort,  you  no  need  to 
trouble." 

"  But  I  can't  feel  jes'  shore  of  her  now." 

"I  feel  jes'  shore  of  her  now." 

"  W'y,  it  Stan's  ter  reason,  mother  —  " 

"  That  a  good  girl  '11  look  down  on  her  own  folks 
because  she  knows  verbs  and  angles  and  languages  an' 
they  don't !  I  know  Lally,  at  any  rate,  better  'n  that. 
Now  you  go  long  back  ter  your  mowin',  afore  the 
dew 's  all  off  the  grass.  It 's  the  third  time  you  've 
b'en  in  about  this  notion,"  said  his  wife,  rubbing  the 


200  The  Elder's  People 

crumbs  of  flour  off  her  hands.  "  Ef  we  can't  trust 
our  own  child,  the  world  can't  come  to  an  end  too 


•j 


soon !  " 

"  That 's  jes'  w'at  I  'm  thinkin',"  he  said.  "An' 
I  don't  want  it  to  come  to  an  end.  It 's  b'en  a 
pleasant  world ;  an'  the  thought  of  her  comin'  home 
has  b'en  the  pleasantest  part  of  it  —  I  mean,  of 
course,  the  pleasantest  sence  them  old  days  w'en  I 
merried  you !  But  I  've  b'en  doin'  a  sight  of  thinkin' 
lately  —  an'  w'en  a  girl 's  b'en  gone  all  these  years, 
an'  b'en  amongst  the  folks  thet  knows  everythin',  an' 
comes  back  home  to  the  folks  thet  don't  know  much 
of  any  thin'  —  " 

"  They  're  her  folks,  though.  An'  blood 's  thicker 
'n  water.  An'  she's  Lally." 

"  Yes,  she 's  Lally.  But  I  —  but  you  —  I  've  tried, 
mother,  —  I  've  spelt  over  them  books  she  's  sent 
home;  but  I  can't  make  nothin'  out'n  'em.  My 
spettacles  don't  noways  fit  my  eyes  —  " 

"  Now,  father !  It  ain't  likely  but  Lally  's  seen 
enough  of  the  folks  that  can  read  them  books.  She 
don't  love  us  because  we  can  read  books  or  can't  read 
'em.  She  lov^es  us  because  we  're  ourselves.  I  would 
n't  own  her  if  she  did  n't !  " 

"  That's  jest  it.  You  '11  be  gittin'  put  out  'ith  her, 
an'  there  '11  be  trouble  —  " 

Now,  Sam,  you  go  right  back  to  the  mowin'- 
field !  I  gotter  git  my  work  done.  I  jes'  sent  down 
some  molasses  an'  ginger  water,  an'  it  '11  be  all  warm 


Father  James  201 

—  and  I  sent  some  apple  patties,  too,  an'  you  won't 
git  your  share  —  and,  anyway,  you  go  along  !  " 

Her  husband  dispiritedly  pulled  himself  together. 
"  I  can't  say  as  I  git  much  encouragement  from  you," 
he  said. 

"  Encouragement  for  what  ?  "  she  asked.  "  For 
doubtin'  your  own  child  ?  That  ain't  what  ye  want." 
And  she  laid  her  floury  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Sam,"  she  said,  "we 've  alius  got  each  other." 

"  It  ain't  enough,"  he  said,  with  something  like 
a  sob.    "  It  ain't  enough  without  her." 

'^  Well,  I  guess  that 's  right,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Emerline,  I  don't  mean  "  —  turning  about  again 
a  T f) 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean  !  Now  if  you  don't 
make  tracks  that  timothy  '11  be  the  thickness  of 
rushes ! "  And  he  went  out  slowly,  his  shoulders 
stooped  as  if  carrying  a  load. 

His  wife  sat  down  and  cried  a  little  then.  If  you  know 
why,  it  is  more  than  she  did.  And  then  she  bustled 
about  till  old  Fuzz  found  his  safe  refuge  under  the 
stove,  and  the  pantry  shelves  bent  with  the  weight 
of  pies  and  crullers  and  pound-cakes  and  the  cold 
roast  lamb.  The  men  had  had  their  dinner  in  the 
mowing- field ;  and  when  her  husband  came  home, 
she  was  sitting,  pale  but  placid,  in  her  lilac  calico, 
her  gray  hair  smooth  as  satin,  her  foot  in  the  stirrup 
of  her  cabbage-netting,  and  Fuzz  purring  on  the 
window-sill  beside  her. 


202  The  Elder's  People 

"  Ain't  ye  goin'  ter  dress  up,    Emerline  ? "    he 
asked,  querulously. 

"  What  for  ?  "  she  said,  calmly. 

"  You  got  a  black  silk,"  he  said,  as  if  challenging 
her  to  deny  it,  "  and  a  gold  chain  —  " 

"I  'd  look  pretty  gittin'  supper  in  a  silk  gownd 
and  a  gold  chain  !  " 

"  You  look  pretty  anyway,  Emerline.  But  w'en 
we  're  expectin'  company —  " 

"  My  daughter  ain't  company." 

"  But  I  wanted  to  put  on  my  Sunday  coat  —  " 

"  Do  you  s'pose  Lally  thinks  of  us  in  our  Sun- 
day clo'es,  or  jes'  's  we  be  ?  " 

"  But  she 's  b'en  seein'  folks  in  better  'n  our 
best." 

"You  go  an'  wash,  father,  an'  put  on  a  clean 
shirt,  an'  slick  your  hair  —  " 

"  W'y,  I  've  b'en  'lottin'  all  day  on  gittin'  into 
my  other  thin's,  Emerline.  I  shaved  this  mornin' 
a-puppus." 

"  You  ain't  much  time  ter  lose,  then.  I  '11  be 
a-settin'  the  table." 

When  her  husband  came  back,  fresh  and  rosy  with 
the  soap  and  water  and  the  clean  shirt,  his  coat  hang- 
ing over  his  arm,  he  sat  down  by  the  stove  dejectedly, 
while  she  bustled  about,  opening  the  oven  door  lest 
the  biscuit  browned  too  soon,  lifting  the  griddles  to 
moderate  the  heat,  bringing  the  lamb  and  the  mint 
sauce  from  the  pantry,  pouring  the  boiling  water  off 


Father  James  203 

the  potatoes  and  setting  them  back  that  they  might 
burst  their  skins. 

"It 's  dretfle  waitin'  so,"  said  her  husband.  And 
he  stretched  his  arm  and  took  down  the  accordion 
from  the  shelf  above  —  the  mother-of-pearl  keys  al- 
ways seeming  to  him  things  of  beauty  and  part  of 
the  melody  —  and  began  playing  a  plaintive  air. 
Presently  he  paused.  "You  know,  Emerline,"  he 
said,  "  there  was  Harding's  Aba  that  come  home  too 
high  an'  mighty  fer  her  folks." 

"  Lally  is  n't  a  Harding." 

"  No,  Lally  is  n't  a  Harding,"  he  repeated,  as  if 
that  were  some  comfort,  and  fell  to  playing  softly 
again.   "No,  Lally  's  Lally,"  he  said,  pausing  again. 

"I  'm  sure  I  hope  so !  "  cried  a  gay  voice  behind 
him;  and  two  hands  were  laid  upon  his  eyes.  "I 
give  you  three  guesses  who  it  is.  Father  James !  And 
the  forfeit 's  kisses!  " 

"  It 's  my  girl !  It 's  my  girl !  "  he  cried,  upsetting 
his  chair  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  caught  her  to 
himself,  the  accordion  falling  forgotten.  And  the 
girl,  a  tall  young  birch-tree  of  a  girl,  could  n't  speak 
for  the  tears  that  were  half  laughing  and  half  crying. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  to  be  here  again !  "  she  said 
then,  as  she  broke  away  from  him  and  ran  to  her 
mother.  "  Oh,  mother,  everything  's  just  the  same  ! 
I  don't  know  how  many  nights  I  Ve  dreamed  about 
it !  Oh,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  dreams  of  those 
nights,  I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  stayed  away !  " 


204  The  Elder's  People 

And  it 's  the  same  little  girl,  Emerline  !  Don't 
you  see?  You  can't  grow  thorns  on  an  apple- 
tree  ! " 

"  It 's  the  same  dear  people !  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad 
you  're  my  people  !  "  And  she  threw  off  her  hat  and 
jacket,  and  had  an  arm  round  each  of  them  again. 

"We  ain't  the  sort  of  people  you've  b'en  goin' 
with,  Lally,"  said  her  father,  with  a  slight  relapse 
into  doubt. 

"  You  're  a  thousand  times  better  !  There  's  no- 
body like  you  !  "  And  she  kissed  the  tear  off  his  face. 
"  Oh,  here  's  dear  old  Fuzz  !  He  remembers  me  — 
I  really  think  he  does  —  after  all  these  years !  And 
the  old  clock  's  ticking  just  the  same !  Wait  till  I 
run  up  to  my  room,  and  I  '11  help  you  get  tea, 
mother." 

"I  set  some  white  lay  locks  there,"  said  her  father, 
when  she  was  gone.  "  I  thought  't  would  make  it 
seem  brighter  like.  She 's  b'en  havin'  thin's  nice." 
And  then  he  added,  anxiously,  "  You  don't  s'pose 
she  's  puttin'  anythin'  on,  do  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  Mr.  James,  you  do  beat  all !  Coin'  about  look- 
in'  for  trouble.  Can  you  see  that  face  an'  think  she 's 
makin'  b'lieve  ?  Puttin'  thin's  on !  Now  we  '11  dish 
up  'fore  she  's  back  —  she 's  gotter  explore  every 
corner  of  the  garret  fust  —  and  I  '11  blow  the  horn 
jes'  's  I  useter  w'en  she  was  down  to  the  medder  lot. 
We  've  got  our  child  back,  father !  " 

"  Wal,  p'r'aps  we  hev.  I  guess  we  hev.  You  do 


Father  James  205 

find  a  way  of  makin'  thin's  comfortable,  mother.  I 
s'pose  I  M  better  put  my  coat  on  'fore  we  set  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  It 's  dretfle  warm." 

"  She 's  b'en  useter  coats  an'  all  that,  you  was 
saym  : 

"Yes.  An'  I  guess  she'd  feel  it  wuss 'n  I  do. 
Emerline,  you  've  got  a  collar  on  !  "  ^ 

"I  do'  know  where  your  eyes  be,  Mr.  James. 
Ever  sence  you  came  home  from  the  war  with  your 
bounty-money  an'  back-pay,  an'  we  hed  the  house 
painted  an'  the  front-door  porch  built  on,  I  've  hed 
a  collar  w'en  I  fixed  up  after  the  day's  work." 

"  I  s'pose  you  could  n't  chum  an'  bake  in  one  ? 
I  do'  know  how  I  can  cut  that  line  o'  lamb  'ith 
these  sleeves  a-pullin'  —  " 

"  It  don't  need  much  cuttin'.  It 's  tender  's  a 
snow-apple." 

"  I  do'  know,"  with  a  sigh.  "  I  do'  know.  By 
gracious  I  "  he  cried  suddenly,  glancing  through  the 
open  door,  "  there  's  that  young  shorthorn  in  the 
new  com  again !  Does  seem  as  if  everjthin'  come  to 
once,  an'  w'en  you  least  expect  it  most !  "  And  the 
sight  acting  like  a  quick  pick-me-up,  he  was  after 
the  shorthorn,  a  pair  of  swift  feet  pattering  behind 
him,  and  he  came  back  from  a  triumphant  rescue  of 
the  com  with  Lally  on  his  arm,  quite  another  man. 

"  Why,  father,"  said  Lally,  as  they  sat  down  at 
the  table,  "what  have  you  got  that  thick  coat  on 


206  The  Elder's  People 

for,  in  this  weather?  You  take  it  right  off,  and 
mother  and  I  '11  make  you  a  linen  one  instead. 
YouVe  got  a  dickey  on,  too!  It's  just  because  I 
was  coming !  But  it 's  mighty  becoming."  An  or- 
der from  the  Governor  would  n't  have  hindered  Mr. 
James  from  wearing  the  becoming  article  next 
morning.  "  I  should  think  I  was  a  queen,  to  see 
you!  "  she  said.  "  Did  you  put  on  a  dickey  the  day 
I  was  born  ?  " 

"  The  day  you  was  bom,"  said  her  father  sol- 
emnly, and  laying  down  his  knife,  "  ef  I  'd  hed  a 
dickey  on  't  would  'a'  b'en  like  a  piece  o'  wet  paper 
—  the  way  't  will  be  w'en  I  come  in  fum  mowin' 


to-morrer." 


"  Father  James  !  You  would  n't  wear  a  dickey 
out  mowing  ?  " 

"I  do'  know.  Wouldn't  ye?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would  n't !  " 

'  Wal,  I  don't  s'pose  the  king  wears  his  crown 
ter  bed.  Yes,"  after  a  moment's  thought  and  the 
disappearance  of  a  buttered  biscuit,  "the  day  you 
was  bom  it  was  jes'  the  gray  of  the  dawnin',  an'  a 
great  star  hung  in  the  east  —  I  guess  a  star  hangs  in 
the  east  before  all  blessings  come  —  " 

"You're  a  blessing  yourself,  Father  James !  " 

"  Guess  your  mother  don't  think  so,"  with  a  shy 
glance  across  the  table. 

"  Sometimes  I  do,  father.  Sometimes,"  said  the 
calm  voice  there. 


Father  James  207 

"  An'  by  the  time  they  fetched  ye  inter  the  room 
where  I  was  stan'in'  by  the  winder  the  sky  of  a  sud- 
ding  flamed  up  the  color  of  an  evening-primrose,  an' 
you  ^\Tls  a-starin'  stret  out  'ith  them  big  eyes  o' 
youm,  an'  fust  ye  blinked  an'  then  ye  sneezed.  I 
vum,  the  bobolink's  whistle  do^vn  in  the  medder  lot 
never  made  half  so  sweet  a  sound  as  thet  little 
sneeze.  But  somehow  it  skeered  me,  too.  You  warn't 
nothin'  but  a  mite,  a  handful  o'  live  dust ;  but  there 
was  suthin'  sort  o'  awesome  in  that  handful.  You 
wus  n't  there  a  minute  ago,  and  now  you  wus,  an' 
the  thin's  that  make  life  an'  death  wus  there,  too.  I 
tell  ye,  I  was  limp.  '  Sam,'  se^  your  mother,  w'en 
I  see  her,  '  it 's  a  'mortal  sperrit.'  An'  I  did  n't 
darst  kiss  ye." 

"You  do  now,  don't  you?"  the  'mortal  spirit 
cried,  and  she  sprang  up  and  darted  round  to  hug 
him.  "  Did  I  choke  you  with  these  arms.  Father 
James  ?  "  she  said,  as  he  emerged  red  from  the  em- 
brace. 

"  They  're  dear  arms,"  said  Father  James. 

"They're  strong  ones.  That's  what  g)'mnasium, 
and  basket-ball,  and  rowing,  and  lifting  dead- 
weights of  women  at  the  hospital  do  for  you.  Oh, 
I  '11  show  you  how  I  can  rake  the  hay  to-morrow." 

''  I  guess  we  didn't  send  ye  to  college  ter  hev  ye 
come  home  an'  rake  hay,"  said  her  father,  majesti- 
cally. "  Say  !  you  ain't  looked  in  the  keepin'- 
room !  " 


208  The  Elder* s  People 

"  Yes,  I  did.  And  you  've  gone  and  got  an  or- 
gan, and  I  can't  play  on  it." 

"  I  can,"  said  her  father. 

"  You  darling  old  Father  James!  You  can  ?  Oh, 
won't  that  be  the  best  yet !  Only  think  of  it ! 
Mother  and  I  will  sing  hymns  and  you  will  play 
them,  Sunday  nights.  I  never  dreamed  of  that ! 
How  did  you  learn  to  do  it,  father  ?  " 

"Learned  myself,"  he  said,  somewhat  loftily. 
"  Picked  it  out,  an'  pegged  away.  Found  out  some 
fum  w'at  I  knowed  of  the  accordion.  Here,  I  '11 
show  ye !"  And  he  left  the  table  and  threw  open 
the  door  of  the  best  room  and  the  lid  of  the  little 
house-organ;  and  bent  laboriously  over  keyboard 
and  pedal,  he  played  the  air  of  "  Federal  Street,"  if 
with  a  certain  sameness  in  the  left  hand.  And  presently 
the  two  voices,  young  and  old,  were  braided  together 
with  the  droning  harmony  in  a  strain  of  music  that 
could  only  have  been  pleasant  in  heavenly  ears, 
however  critical  might  have  been  earthly  ones. 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  full  of  music,  Father 
James,"  said  Lally,  when  they  were  finishing  their 
supper  more  leisurely.  "  But  how  you  contrived  all 
this,  I  can't  imagine.  I  'm  just  as  proud  as  a  pea- 
cock !  " 

"  Wal,  I  hed  a  try  at  them  books  ye  sent  home, 
and  I  found  't  was  no  go.  And  I  'd  bought  the  organ 
for  you  to  have,  an'  there  was  the  old  book  of  hymn 
tunes,  an'  'ith  the  help  o'  that  an'  w'at  your  mother 


Father  James  209 

an'  me  learned  to  singln'-schule,  I  made  out.  An' 
sometimes  -t  was  like  havin'  courtin'  days  over  again 
—  wam't  it,  mother  ?  " 

"You 're  a  genius!  That's  what  you  are.  And 
mother  's  a  master  hand  at  biscuit.  I  don't  know 
when  I  've  tasted  anything  like  them." 

"  There  's  a  little  too  much  shortening,"  said  her 
mother. 

"  Your  mother  took  fust  prize  to  the  Count}^  Fair," 
said  her  father,  with  an  air,  yet  with  pleasant  con- 
descension from  his  recent  pedestal,  "for  her  loaf- 
bread  an'  her  creamer-tarter,  an'  her  butter,  an'  her 
currant  jell,  an'  her  damin' !  " 

"  I  think  Mis'  Wabbles  hed  orter  hed  it  for  the 
jell,"  said  the  mother,  modestly.  "  She  puts  a  piece 
o'  rose-geranium  leaf  in  hern." 

"  And  I  took  on  thet  consamed  shorthorn  heifer 
and  on  the  colt !  " 

"  That  poor  colt  will  never  grow  up.  You  've  had 
the  premium  on  him  for  the  last  five  years." 

"  No.  Lemme  see.  Only  three.  But  he  's  a  Mor- 
gan, an'  there  ain't  any  other  Morgans  in  the  county. 
He 's  a  beauty  —  sleek  as  satting —  an'  w'at  he  don't 
know  ain't  wuth  knowin'.  There  ain't  any  knot  he 
can't  ontie  with  his  teeth.  I  b'en  in  the  habit  o'  takin' 
up  Neighbor  Thomas  an'  givin'  him  a  lift.  Thomas 
is  ruther  hefty,  an'  the  colt  don't  like  it  for  a  cent. 
And  one  day  I  'd  left  him  a-standin',  an'  he  see  a  big 
sailor  come  along  that  looked  like  Thomas,  an'  he 


2 1 0  The  Eldei-'s  People 

walks  across,  wagon  an'  all,  and  opens  his  mouth, 
an'  takes  the  sailor  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  an* 
throws  him  down.  An'  then  he  Stan's  an'  gives  a 
reg'lar  laugh,  he  was  so  pleased  'ith  himself.  Oh, 
he  's  a  great  one !  If  I  thought  well  o'  racing  —  but 
then  I  don't,"  he  said,  ruefully.  "  Well,  you  shell 
hev  a  ride  behind  'im  to-morrer  an'  see.  That  is,  ef 
we  finish  the  hayin'  —  an',  by  glory !  ef  we  don't !  " 

"  Now,  mother,  you  go  and  sit  down,"  said  Lally. 

I  'm  going  to  clear  up.  And  I  'm  going  to  skim 
the  milk  and  scald  the  pans.  I  don't  believe  there 's 
anything  makes  you  feel  so  rich  as  skimming  the 
cream  does.  You  lift  the  thick  skins  and  you  can't 
bear  to  leave  an  atom.  Except  it  is  when  you  're 
hunting  ^^^?>  and  find  two  in  a  nest." 

"No,  no,  now,  Lally.  I  don't  want  you  to.  I  'm 
useter  it !  'T  ain't  nothin'  at  all.  And  I  don't  want 
your  hands  all  roughed  up !  " 

"  I  guess  my  hands  can  stand  it  if  yours  can." 

" That 's  right,  Lally,"  said  her  father.  "Them 
old  ban's  o'  hem  was  as  white  as  yours  be  once. 
Our  ban's  hev  growed  old  together,  wife.  With  the 
wearin'  o'  years  an'  the  wearin'  o'  work."  And  he 
took  one  of  them  and  held  it  on  his  arm  a  moment, 
in  spite  of  her  reluctance. 

It  was  over  a  house  full  of  happy  peace  that  the 
soft  summer  night  fell.  Now  and  then  a  breath  from 
the  distant  salt  marshes  mixed  the  fresh  sea-scents 
with  the  heavy  richness  of  the  lilacs,  and  mounted 


Father  James  211 

and  stirred  drowsily  in  the  tops  of  the  great  elm  that 
housed  all  a  world  of  small  life  in  the  depths  of  its 
green  shadow;  and  a  golden  robin  waked  with  a 
gush  of  song  ;  and  down  in  the  cool  dew  of  the  grass 
a  sparrow  for  an  instant  dreamed  that  it  was  morn- 
ing ;  and  like  the  shield  of  some  great  spirit  the  moon 
came  up,  and  the  faint  mists  fled  before  her;  and  far 
off  from  farm  to  farm  through  the  wide  obscurity  a 
dog  bayed  in  the  deep  of  the  night. 

"  You  'sleep,  mother  ?  "  said  Father  James  in  a 
hollow  whisper. 

"No.  Be  you?" 

"  I  ain't  closed  an  eye.  Seems  though  I  did  n't 
Rnow  how  to  say  I  'm  thankful  enough  to  hev  her 
back.   Say — she  ain't  changed  a  mite." 

"  You  can't  change  gold,"  said  his  wife.  "  'T  will 
alius  be  gold." 

"  Thet  's  so.  She  's  prett)^  's  a  pink,  now,  ain't 
she  ?  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  you,  Emerline,  w'en 
we  fust  begun  to  keep  company." 

"  What  talk !  You  go  to  sleep." 

"  But,  Emerline  —  she 's  so  —  so  —  like  a  flower. 
Do  you  s'pose,  jes'  s'pose,  she  '//  ever  be  keepin' 
company  'ith  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  should  hope  so !   Sometime." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  mother.  I  do'  know  's  I 
want  ter  gi\'e  her  up  to  the  best  man  go  in'.  And  he 
might  n't  he  the  best  man  goin'.  I  —  I  don't  feel  as 
if  the  Angel  Gabriel  'd  be  more  'n  good  enough  for 


212  The  Elder's  People 

her.  And  I  'd  ruther  he  did  n't  come  round.  I  tell 
ye,  w'en  youVe  done  yer  best  for  your  child,  an' 
sot  your  heart  on  her,  an'  look  forrud  to  her  holdin' 
the  light  to  yer  old  age,  't  ain't  easy  ter  see  another 
man  come  along  an'  snake  her  away  from  ye.  I  do' 
know  's  I  'd  like  ter  see  her  any  man's  wife  —  " 
"  She  'd  be  your  daughter  still  ef  she  was  twenty 


men's  wives." 


"  Twenty  men's  wives !  Why,  mother  —  " 

"Mr.  James,  your  piller 's  full  of  live-geese 
feathers.  It'll  be  sunup  in  no  time.  An'  there's  the 
long  medder  to-morrer." 

"  You  're  talking  about  me !  I  know  you  are !  " 
cried  a  gay  voice  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  above.  "  If 
you  don't  stop  I  shall  come  down  and  talk  too ! " 

"  We  ain't  spoke  your  name  !  "  cried  her  father. 

"  McGregor's  dogs  keepin'  ye  awake,  Lally  ?  " 
said  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  no.  But  I  'm  so  happy  I  can't  sleep !  I  '11 
try  again,  though.  Good  night." 

"  I  'd  like  ter  hed  her  come  down,  jes'  ter  see  ef 
't  was  really  her,"  whispered  her  father.  "  Mother, 
you  put  yer  hand  on  my  eyes,  an'  mebbe  I  '11  go  off. 
I  guess  that's  w'at 's  the  matter  of  me  —  /'m  too 
happy  ter  sleep."  And  under  the  calm,  cool  touch  he 
was  presently  lost  in  happy  dreams. 

The  bobolink's  nest  down  on  the  floor  of  the  long 
meadow,  in  its  tangle  of  sunbeams  and  the  shadow 


Father  James  213 

pf  tall  grasses,  with  the  soft  flower-scented  wind 
stirring  just  above  it,  did  not  hold  more  happi- 
ness than  this  old  farm-cottage  held.  But  one  day 
the  shadow  of  a  man  fell  athwart  the  grass  and  shut 
the  sun  away;  and  the  bobolink  knew  it  meant  the 
morrow's  mowing,  and  ruin.  And  one  day  Father 
James  saw  the  shadow  of  a  man  fall  across  the 
farm. 

It  was  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  handed  to  him  at 
the  little  post-ofEce,  where  he  had  gone  to  send  his 
asparagus  and  rhubarb  stalks  to  Salt  Water.  He  had 
taken  the  letter  between  his  thumb  and  finger  as  if  it 
were  a  reptile,  reading  the  boldly  written  address, 
*'Mis3  Laura  James,"  without  his  glasses,  and  with 
a  feeling  that  some  one  was  taking  a  liberty  with  his 
daughter's  name ;  and  he  tucked  it  under  the  seat  be- 
fore driving  home,  the  colt  being  in  an  antic  mood. 
.  "  There  was  a  letter  for  you,  Lally,"  he  said, 
when  he  came  in.  "But  I  put  it  under  the  cushing, 
an'  't  ain't  there  now.  Must  'a'  joggled  out.  Dinner 
mos'  ready,  mother  ?  " 

"  Father  James  !  "  cried  Lally,  stopping  suddenly 
with  the  colander  of  pease  in  her  hands.  ''  Have  you 
lost  my  letter  ?   Oh,  you  don't  mean  so  !  " 

"  Wal,  never  mind.  Le's  hev  dinner,  an'  then 
I  '11  go  back  an'  find  it,  ef  you  say  so." 

But  Lally,  waiting  for  no  dinner,  had  snatched 
her  hat  from  the  entry  nail  while  he  spoke,  and  was 
off  down  the  dust  of  the   highway,  searching  both 


214  '  The  Elder's  People 

sides  as  she  ran,  coming  back  contentedly  before  very 
long,  the  driver  of  a  team  following  her  father's 
having  found  the  treasure  and  given  it  to  her.  She 
had  sat  down  in  a  broken  part  of  the  stone  wall, 
where  the  wild  sweetbrier  and  blackberry  vines 
climbed  all  about,  and  had  read  the  letter,  and  look- 
ing round  swiftly,  had  kissed  the  sheet  before  she 
read  it,  and  afterward.  And  her  father  knew  in  his 
intimate  consciousness  that  she  had  done  so  —  whether 
by  the  flush  on  her  cheek  deep  as  a  damask  rose,  by 
the  blaze  in  her  eyes  like  blue  diamonds,  or  by  some 
inner  unknown  sympathy. 

She  was  swinging  her  hat,  and  coming  leisurely 
through  the  hot  sunshine.  "I  found  it,  father,"  she 
cried,  joyously,  as  she  saw  him  sitting  on  the  door- 
stone.  "Why,  you  needn't  look  so  serious,  dear. 
It's  no  matter  now.  And  you  've  been  waiting  din- 


ner!" 


"  I  ain't  no  appertite,"  said  her  father  ruefully. 

"Well,  I  have!" 

"  Lally  !  "  he  said,  staying  her  as  she  would  have 
stepped  past  him,  and  looking  straight  into  her  won- 
dering eyes.   "  Hev  you  got  a  feller  ?  " 

"  What's  a  feller,  father  ?  "  her  head  on  one  side 
in  a  pretty  mimicry  of  ignorance. 

"  A  man  that  will  take  you  away  fum  me !  " 

"There  isn't  any  man  alive  who  can  take  me 
away  from  you ! "  she  said.  And  putting  her  arm 
over  his  shoulder,  she  went  in  with  him,  and  ate  her 


Father  James  215 

dinner  in  spirits  that  were  almost  contagious.  "  Oh, 
how  good  this  cherry-pie  is  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What 
is  there  better  than  a  cherry-pie  ?  " 

"  Two  cherr}^-pies,"  said  her  father. 

"  '  The  boy  guessed  right  the  very  first  time,'  " 
she  sang. 

"  Laura  James,  child,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  're 
at  the  table  !  " 

"  So  are  you,  mother,"  said  the  child,  who  would 
have  been  spoiled  if  love  could  spoil  anything,  be- 
ginning to  clear  away  the  dishes.  Her  father  had 
not  moved,  but  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
his  head  in  his  hands.  Lally  ran  out  to  bring  in  her 
dish-towels  from  the  grass. 

"  I  s'pose  you  know  w'at  's  happened,  mother  ?  " 
he  said.  "  She's  hed  a  letter.  An'  it's  jes'  the  be- 
ginnin'  o'  the  end.  I  do'  know  but  I  'd  as  lives 
she  'd  never  b'en  bom  —  " 

"  Mr.  James,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you  !  "  said  his 
wife.  "  It 's  temptin'  Proverdunce.  If  we  'd  never 
hed  any  more  of  her  than  jes'  the  happiness  of  this 
last  week,  we  'd  hev  hed  enough  to  be  grateful  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives  !  " 

Coming  back  for  the  hot  water,  Lally  began  sing- 
ing again,  half  under  her  breath  this  time : 

**  There  was  a  certain  father 
Who  thought  that  he  would  rather 
His  daughter  should  stay  single  all  her  life. 
Than  be  happy  with  a  husband  — 


216  The  Elder's  People 

Husband  —  husband  —  oh,  there  is  n't  any  rhyme 
to  husband !  " 

"  Nor  reason,  either,"  said  her  mother.  "  Now, 
Mr.  James,  that  com  's  b'en  grow  in'  fur  all  it 's 
wuth  these  hot  nights,  and  is  fairly  achin'  ter  be 
hoed." 

"  I  'm  goin',  mother,  I  'm  goin',"  he  said. 

They  were  all  sitting  in  the  porch  that  evening, 
the  twilight  falling  and  faint  stars  showing.  The 
Madeira-vine  shed  its  sweet  breath,  and  the  fra- 
grance of  the  Clethra-bush  in  the  swamp  blew  softly 
about  them,  and  the  far-off  crickets  seemed  onlv  the 
singing  of  silence.  *'  Is  n't  it  perfect !  "  said  Lally. 
"  Oh,  if  you  had  been  in  the  hospital  wards  as 
long  as  I  was,  with  only  the  smell  of  drugs,  this  air 
would  seem  to  you  just  blowing  out  of  heaven !  " 

''  I  never  quite  liked  your  goin'  ter  the  hospittle, 
Lally,"  said  her  father. 

"  Well,  you  see,  it  was  just  as  I  wrote  you.  If  I 
stayed  after  I  was  through  college  to  study  medi- 


cine —  " 


"An'  be  a  doctor!" 

"  It  would  have  taken  just  as  long  again,  and 
twice  the  expense  —  " 

"  Oh,  consam  the  expense  !  " 

"  But  if  I  went  into  the  hospital  to  be  trained  for 
a  nurse,  it  would  take  only  two  years  and  no  expense 
at  all.  And  then  plenty  of  work  near  home,  where  I 
could  see  you  and  come  home  for  rest  —  " 


Father  James  217 

"  It  don't  seem  jes'  wuth  w'ile  ter  go  ter  college 
ter  be  a  nuss^"  said  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  dear.  I  shall  be  all  the  better  nurse.  That 
is,  if  I  'm  a  nurse  at  all  now,"  hesitatingly.  "  Per- 
haps I  sha'n't  be  a  nurse  now,  and  you'll  think 
those  two  years  in  the  hospital  have  gone  for  noth- 
ing. Only,  if  I  had  n't  been  in  the  hospital,"  — 
pulling  down  a  piece  of  the  Madeira-vine  about  her, 
—  "I  never  should  have  met  him,  maybe." 

"  Him  I  "  cried  her  father. 

"  Dr.  Lewis.  And  knowing  how  to  nurse,  I  may 
be  of  a  great  deal  of  use  to  him.  Now  I  '11  tell  you 
all  about  him !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  He  's  —  he 's  — 
well,  he  's  Dr.  Lewis !  "  getting  herself  farther  into 
the  shadow.  "And  you  can't  help  liking  him;  and 
he  '11  come  out  here  and  settle,  — old  Dr.  PajTie's 
looking  for  some  one  to  take  his  place,  you  know. 
That  is,  if  he  thinks  best  after  looking  the  ground 


over." 


"  'T  ain't  good  enough  for  him,  mebbe." 

"Why,  Father  James,  I  should  n't  think  this  was 
you !  " 

"By  George!  I  shouldn't  think 'twas!  'T  ain't 
w'at  I  expected !  " 

Then  an  arm  was  about  his  neck,  and  a  velvet 
cheek  lay  against  his  face  a  moment. 

"  It 's  the  way  a  bird's  wing  brushes  by  in  the 
dark.  They  all  leave  the  nest,  they  all  leave  the 
nest,"  he  said,  and  rose  stiffly  and  went  in. 


218  The  Elder"  s  People 

"  He  a'most  creaked,"  said  his  wife,  shortly. 

"  Oh,  mother !  "  cried  Lally,  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  mother's  neck,  and  poured  out  her  story,  and 
was  comforted. 

Going  to  the  village  the  next  morning,  Mr.  James 
was  handed  another  letter  for  Lally. 

"  Guess  your  Laury  's  got  a  beau,"  said  the  post- 


mistress. 


Her  mother  had  one  at  her  age,"  said  Mr.  James, 
dryly. 

"  S'pose  she  '11  be  gittin'  merried  soon  "  —  a  fore- 
gone conclusion  needing  only  the  affirmative. 

"  Sooner  or  later,"  was  the  response.  And  he  went 
home  a  little  happier  for  having  defended  Lally  from 
public  curiosity. 

"  Guess  the  old  man  don't  like  it  very  well,  he 's 
so  short,"  said  the  postmistress  to  the  crony  who  had 
happened  in. 

"  Not  the  leastestest  mite.  He 's  alius  b'en  consid- 
er'ble  ambitioned  for  Laury.  Nobody  less  'n  the 
Prince  o'  Wales  'd  do  for  her." 

"  He  '11  have  to  take  up  'ith  short  o'  that,"  said 
the  other,  putting  back  into  the  box  the  postal  card 
she  had  been  spelling  over,  and  turning  to  her  little 
shop.  "  She 's  a  good  gal  an'  'd  orter  hev  a  good 
man.  But  w'en  a  gal's  father  don't  think  well  er  the 
man,  she  'd  better  let  him  be." 

"  Gals  are  mighty  headstrong  nowadays.  But  I 
would  n't  'a'  thought  —  " 


Father  James  219 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  sayin'  thet  I  know  anything,"  said 
the  postmistress,  her  face  as  blank  as  if  great  se- 
crets hid  behind  it.  It  is  disagreeable  to  confess  you 
know  nothing.  You  can  look  as  if  you  knew  a  great 
deal. 

"  I  hear,  Mr.  James,"  said  the  Elder,  pausing  on 
his  parochial  round  that  afternoon  to  look  over  the 
stone  wall  the  farmer  was  mending,  "  that  your 
daughter  will  not  be  long  with  us.  I  hope  her  choice 


is  a  wise  one." 


"  First  rate !  "  said  Mr.  James,  taking  out  his  big 
red  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  forehead.  "  Could  n't 
be  better.  Me  an'  her  mother  think  she  's  done  first 
rate."  And  there  he  stood  committed. 

But  that  was  for  the  outside.  In  his  heart  —  Lally 
would  never  be  happy  with  what  was  in  his  heart. 
And  then  a  new  thought  struck  him  with  a  pang  of 
joy.  What  if  the  fellow  who  had  come  to  see  Lally's 
folks  should  find  things  not  quite  up  to  his  mark  ?  — 
What!  And  break  Lally's  heart?  And  shame  her 
before  the  whole  parish,  too  ?  He  threw  down  his 
crowbar,  in  a  rage  at  himself,  at  Lally,  at  all  the 
world,  and  went  striding  away  as  if  he  were  trj'ing 
to  escape  his  shadow.  It  would  not  have  made  his 
pursuing  thoughts  calmer  had  he  known  that  the 
same  thought,  if  with  a  difference,  had  for  the  first 
time  occurred  to  Lally. 

It  was  sunset  when  he  found  himself  sitting  on  a 
shelf  of  rock  in  the  old  quarry.  The  long  red  light 


220  The  Elder's  People 

streamed  over  him  and  stained  the  lichens  on  the 
wall  beyond.  Down  in  the  forsaken  pit  the  waters 
of  the  pool  were  black.  Well  —  it  was  time  to  go 
home;  the  boy  had  driven  the  cows  up  by  this, 
and  his  wife  was  waiting  for  him  to  milk.  There 
was  no  such  thing  as  rest  for  him  in  this  life,  nor  in 
the  next  one,  either.  He  had  brought  the  girl  up ;  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  her ;  he  had  gone  without  and 
spent  himself  that  she  might  be  made  the  perfect 
thing  she  was  —  and  all  to  give  her  up  now  to 
another  man.  The  perfect  thing  she  was !  It  was  not 
likely,  then,  that  she  would  not  choose  as  a  perfect 
thing  should.  But  what  odds  to  him  ?  He  was  going 
to  lose  her,  just  the  same ;  and  more  —  she  would  be 
wrapped  up  in  that  husband  of  hers,  and  in  all  the 
new  concerns.  That  was  the  way  of  the  world.  Love 
went  down ;  it  did  not  run  back.  It  was  what  other 
fathers  had  to  put  up  with. 

Soft  purples  began  to  filter  through  the  red  of  the 
sunset.  He  heard  a  whippoorwill  call,  far  off  over 
the  cranberry-swamp;  and  then  there  was  a  silver 
din  of  whippoorwills.  He  remembered  the  first  time 
Lally  ever  heard  one  —  she  held  out  both  her  little 
hands  to  the  evening  star.  "  The  star  is  singing  !  " 
she  had  cried.  Ah,  ah,  what  a  lovely  dear  she  was 
then !  —  what  a  lovely  dear  she  was  now  !  Like  a 
great  velvet  rose.  No  wonder  she  had  a  lover !  Of 
course,  of  course  —  that,  too,  was  the  way  of  the 
world.  He  would  n't  have  liked  it  if  she  had  n't  had 


Father  James  221 

one,  he  supposed.  All  the  same,  it  was  hard  for  him. 
It  was  hard  for  him  that  she  didn't  seem  to  care 
that  it  was  hard.  It  was  hard  for  him  that  he  had  to 
lose  the  daily  sight  and  cheer  of  her.  That  it  was  n't 
to  him  she  would  come  in  joy  or  in  trouble.  That 
she  put  some  one  else  before  him. 

He  knew  how  it  was.  His  own  wife  had  left  fa- 
ther and  mother  and  cleaved  only  to  him,  and  never 
thought  strange  of  it.  How  had  her  father  and  mother 
felt  ?  He  recollected  that  the  mother  cried  when 
they  left ;  and  the  father  choked  up  and  turned  away 
quickly.  But  they  had  let  her  go.  They  wanted  her 
to  be  happy.  They  cared  more  for  her  happiness  than 
for  their  own.  They  knew  the  time  would  come  when 
she  would  not  have  them  and  would  be  alone  if  she 
had  no  husband  or  child.  Why,  they  loved  her  bet- 
ter than  they  loved  themselves !  They  were  glad  in 
her  happiness,  even.  And  all  at  once,  in  his  high- 
wrought  mood,  like  a  flash  of  revelation  came  a 
quick  acquaintance  with  the  joy  of  sacrifice.  All  at 
once  he  made  it  his  own.  He  sat  staring  before  him, 
as  if  at  a  vision  of  angels,  while  the  rosy  afterglow 
welled  up  and  filled  the  sky  and  fell  away ;  and  then 
he  saw  a  star  sparkling  up  at  him  out  of  the  water, 
as  if  glad  of  his  sudden  gladness.  He  climbed  to 
break  off  half  a  dozen  big  boughs  of  the  wild  black- 
cherry,  loaded  with  their  pungent  fruit,  and  saw  Lyra, 
blue  as  a  sapphire,  up  there  in  the  sky  above  him, 
looking  down  into  the  pool;  and  all  the  way  home 


222  The  Elder's  People 

he  felt  accompanied  by  something  like  spiritual  and 
sympathetic  sharers  of  his  happy  mood. 

"Wal,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  who  was  waiting  at 
the  gate,  "  I  guess  them  cows  are  thinkin'  it 's  high 
time  o'  day  —  " 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said.  "Lally's  milked. 
The  farrer  kicked,  though,  an'  spilled  some.  Where 
you  b'en?" 

"I  do'  know  but  I  've  b'en  a-rasslin'  with  the 
angel  of  the  Lord,  mother.  Anyways,  I  come  off 
with  the  blessing.  Mother,  I  'm  real  pleased  at  this 
young  man  of  Lally's.  W'y,  it  '11  be  jes'  the  same  's 
a  son  to  us !  " 

"  I  thought  you'd  feel  that  way  w'en  ye  come  to 
think,"  said  his  wife.  "  Now  we  '11  have  supper  right 
away.  I  'm  afeard  the  pop-overs  are  flat  as  flapjacks, 
though." 

He  handed  the  boughs  of  black-cherry  to  Lally 
as  he  went  in.  "There,"  said  he;  "they  're  puckery, 
but  they  're  good.  Only  they  '11  make  yer  lips  so 
black  he  won't  wanter  look  at  ye !  " 

To  his  consternation,  Lally  burst  into  tears  and 
sprang  into  his  arms.  "  I  don't  care  whether  he  does 
or  not !  "  she  cried.  "  So  long  as  I  have  you  !  " 

"  Sho !  sho !  Don't  ye  go  milkin'  them  cows 
again.  You  're  all  tuckered  out.  Don't  you  know  — 
you  've  got  him,  and  us  too  !  " 

It  had  been  a  bitter  day  to  Lally.  At  first  a  little 
indignant  with  her  father  for  the  way  in  which  he 


Father  James  223 

looked  at  her  lover,  she  had  turned  the  tables  and 
wondered  how  her  lover  would  look  at  her  father  — 
he  city-bred,  his  mother's  house  a  place  of  compara- 
tive luxury  and  elegance ;  he  used  to  the  refinements 
and  graces  of  life.  She  had  been  away  from  the  Settle- 
ment a  long  while;  peculiarities  had  been  forgotten 
or  had  grown  strange  to  her ;  they  were  of  no  conse- 
quence. In  her  love  and  her  reverence  for  her  people, 
and  in  her  delight  in  them,  they  had  not  worried 
her.  But  suddenly,  looking  at  them  with  a  stran- 
ger's eyes,  they  started  out  like  sparks  on  the  black- 
ening ember.  And  then  in  turn  she  was  indignant 
with  her  lover  for  seeing  them.  "If  he  does !  "  said 
Lally  to  herself,  with  a  mysterious,  unspoken  threat. 
"  Look  with  disdain  on  them,  indeed !  I  would  n't 
have  father  know  it  for  a  farm  !  If  he  does  !  "  And 
the  days  of  alternate  doubt  and  uncertainty,  of  hope 
and  fear,  made  her  so  restless  that  she  wished  she  could 
go  to  sleep  and  not  wake  till  Dr.  Lewis  came.  And 
then  she  cried  again,  in  a  passion  of  tenderness  for 
him  too.  But  he  should  see  them  just  as  they  were  — • 
her  mother's  toil-worn  hands  and  rustic  air;  her  fa- 
ther eating  with  his  knife;  the  king's  English! 

When  at  last  the  day  brought  Dr.  Lewis,  he  had 
already  been  to  see  Dr.  Payne,  and  had  satisfied  him- 
self concerning  the  professional  outlook.  And  then 
the  doctor  dropped  him  at  the  farm.  "  You  're  going 
to  Mr.  James's  ?  "  the  doctor  had  asked,  as  they 
jogged  along.  "  There  's  a  young  woman  there,  just 


224  The  Elder's  People 

back  from  college  and  hospital.  One  of  the  men  cut 
himself  with  his  scythe,  mowing,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  when  I  got  there.  Ah  yes  — 
I  see.  Well,  sir,  you  're  in  luck.  That 's  so.  Yes, 
you  '11  be  seeing  the  inside  of  most  of  the  families 
within  twenty  miles,  before  you  come  to  my  years, 
but  I  doubt  if  you  find  the  equal  of  the  Jameses  in 
all  your  goings  and  comings.  I  never  have.  There  's 
a  good  deal  goes  on  that 's  between  God  and  James 
alone ;  but,  for  my  part,  when  I  find  a  man  naked  to 
his  enemies  and  just  outside  the  prison  gate,  I  send 
him  up  there  and  James  takes  him  on  the  farm.  Or, 
if  I  have  anybody  sick  without  a  spot  to  lay  her 
head,  I  go  to  Mrs.  James,  and  she  brings  her  home 
to  nurse.  Hot  nights,  dark  nights,  stormy  nights,  I 
don't  know  what  I  'd  have  done  in  this  village  with- 
out that  woman.  Mrs.  Dacre  and  Miss  Mahala  are  in- 
dependent guerrillas  in  our  warfare;  but  Mrs.  James 
was  always  under  orders,  my  orders.  Sam  James 
could  have  made  his  fortune  once  merely  by  holding 
his  tongue  when  the  doubt  was  in  his  favor;  but  he 
spoke  —  and  stayed  poor.  They  sent  him  to  the  Leg- 
islature one  term ;  but,  by  King !  he  was  too  honest 
for  them !  His  word  is  better  than  another  man's 
bond  any  day,  and  so  was  his  father's  before  him. 
A  childish  sort  of  man,  too ;  womanish ;  lives  in  his 
affections.  Yes,  they  're  rough  maybe,  the  Jameses ; 
but  they  're  rough  diamonds.  Never  brought  me 
much  practice,  though;  nothing  ever  ails  them!  " 


Father  James  225 

Dr.  Lewis  came  into  the  living-room,  set  about 
with  jars  of  big  green  boughs,  where  a  gray-haired 
w^oman  with  a  certain  shy  dignity  gave  him  her 
roughened  hand,  where  a  tall  gaunt  man  with  a 
beaming  eye  took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  wheeled 
him  round  that  he  might  look  into  his  face,  and 
where  Lally  laughed  and  cried  with  one  arm  about 
him  and  one  about  her  father.  And  then,  the  simple 
blessing  asked,  the  plates  were  heaped,  and  before 
they  were  cleared  Dr.  Lewis  was  as  much  one  of  the 
family  as  if  he  had  been  bom  to  it. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Father  James,  before  they 
rose.  "  I  asked  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  upon  this 
food.  But  now  I  want  to  give  thanks  for  life  and 
health  and  a  new  happiness,  and  a  son  !  " 

It  was  an  hour  or  two  later  that  Lally  and  her 
lover  went  straying  through  the  dark  down  by  the 
wheat-field,  where  the  fireflies  were  flashing  as  if  all 
the  stars  were  falling.  "  Now,"  said  Lally,  "  you 
have  come.  You  have  seen  me  in  my  home,  my  peo- 
ple in  all  their  difference  from  yours.  Do  you  still  —  " 

"  And  you  have  been  doubting  me  !  I  knew  there 
was  some  bee  in  your  bonnet.  Do  you  suppose  I 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  value  people  who  live  so 
near  Nature  that  they  have  all  her  honesty  and 
goodness  ? " 

"And  —  and  the  king's  English?"  she  asked, 
desperately. 

"  Lally,  I  would  n't  have  thought  it  of  you,"  he 


226  The  Elder's  People 

said;  but  he  held  her  fast.  "You  distrust  me,  you 
distrust  them.  Oh,  you  want  it  all  cleared  up  ?  Well. 
Don't  you  know  that  every  Scotchman  speaks  in  his 
own  dialect  ?  That  the  Greek  poets  sang  each  in  his 
own  ?  That  the  English  language  is  spoken  in  its 
purity  only  in  old  Mercia  and  in  Massachusetts ;  and 
outside  of  that,  one  dialect  is  no  worse  than  another  ? 
I  fancy  that  love  and  truth  are  no  less  love  and  truth 
when  spoken  in  this  Doric.  Lally,  it  makes  me  proud  to 
think  you  born  of  such  simple,  noble  souls  as  these !  " 
And  Lally  dropped  his  arm,  and  ran  up  the  path 
through  the  blossoming  yellow  lilies,  pale  as  spirits 
in  the  dark,  and  grasped  her  mother's  hand,  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  father's  breast.  "Oh,  he 
says  —  he  says,"  she  cried — "he  says  that  he  is 
proud  to  be  your  son ! ''  , 


THE  IMPOSSIBLE  CHOICE 


X 

The  Impossible  Choke 

E  held  the  lamp  low,  shielding  the  flame  with 
one  hand,  —  a  big,  brown  hand,  used  to  strong 
work,  —  and  looked  down  at  the  rosy  faces  in  the 
wide  bed. 

ITiere  were  three  in  that  bed  —  a  tangled  mass 
of  cherubs,  one  pillowed  on  another,  and  arms  and 
feet  thrust  ever^^vhere.  There  was  Mamie,  the  first 
little  girl  that  came  after  the  older  boy,  her  mother's 
mainstay,  the  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew  on  earth, 
faintly  flushed  with  sleep  now,  her  curls  in  dewy 
rings.  There  was  Betty,  every  one  of  whose  freckles 
he  loved,  —  fairy  favors,  he  heard  the  Elder  call 
them,  —  little  Betty,  the  child  that  made  trouble. 
There  was  Rhody,  —  he  recalled  the  day  the  Elder 
christened  Rhody,  and  she  looked  like  one  of  those 
little  angels  you  see  in  pictures,  head  and  wings, 
and  she  began  to  sing  in  her  baby  way.  No,  it  was 
out  of  the  question :  he  could  not  let  them  go,  his 
own  three  girls ! 

And  in  the  trundle-bed  there  was  Mamy,  the  pale, 
silent  child  he  had  taken  home  when  his  sister  died, 
and  had  loved  before  he  had  any  of  his  own  to  love. 
No,  no,  he  could  n't  spare  Mamy ;  she  was  always 
in  a  dream,  but  she  was  Mamy  and  his  dead  sister, 


230  '  The  Elder's  People 

too.  He  knew  nothing  about  Madonnas ;  but,  if  he 
had,  he  would  have  said  the  young  girl  Mary  must 
have  looked  this  way.  He  did  not  put  things  into 
words  —  but  the  worshipful  feeling  in  his  heart  he 
had  for  her  he  might  have  had  for  that  other  Mary 
of  long  ago.  He  had  some  degree  of  worshipful  feel- 
ing, indeed,  for  his  own  children,  —  they  seemed  to 
him  such  marvels,  —  called  into  existence  as  if  one 
summoned  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep.  The  baby 
slept  with  Mamy;  her  protecting  hand  still  held  the 
small  blanket  about  him. 

He  stepped  on  lightly  in  his  stocking  feet  to  the 
room  where  the  boys  were,  bowing  his  height  in  the 
doorway.  The  dark  head  of  Charles  lay  on  the  pillow 
of  the  crosslegged  bedstead.  He  had  gone  into  infinite 
distance  in  a  slumber  deeper  than  dreams.  The  boy 
was  his  pride  —  a  very  different  person  from  Har- 
riman's  Charlie ;  Harriman's  boy  would  never  have 
come  to  anything  if  he  had  lived.  He  expected  great 
things  from  Charles.  Some  day  this  fellow  would  go 
to  the  Great  and  General  Court.  Yes,  he  would  do 
justice  to  an  education;  he  ought  to  have  it  —  but 
he  could  n't.  If  there  was  any  grit  in  him  he  'd  find 
a  way  himself.  As  for  Tom  and  Billy,  the  little  red- 
headed rascals  in  the  other  bed  —  why,  without  the 
twins  the  place  would  be  as  still  as  the  grave.  They  had 
been  fighting,  and  had  fallen  asleep  with  their  arms 
locked  in  a  wrestling  grip,  and  would  wake  up  and 
be  at  it  again  at  daybreak.  And  then  the  ray  of  the 


The  Impossible  Choice  231 

lamp  caught  a  sparkle,  and  he  saw  a  tear  on  little 
Jo's  cheek ;  he  had  been  sent  to  bed  before  the  others, 
for  some  mischief  he  had  done.  That  tear  brought  a 
tear  to  the  father's  eye.  His  mother  was  very  tender 
of  little  Jo  —  doubly  tender  since  the  fall  that  lamed 
him.  He  must  make  up  to  the  little  lad  for  that  tear. 

But,  good  heavens,  how  was  he  going  to  make 
up  anything  to  these  children  for  having  brought 
them  into  the  world  to  work  and  want  and  poverty  ? 
That  was  what  the  woman  said,  that  afternoon,  when 
she  wanted  Louisy  to  give  her  one.  Why  were  such 
women  allowed  to  go  about  the  earth  ?  An  angry 
sparkle  shot  across  the  long-lashed  hazel  eyes  that 
little  Jo  had  inherited. 

He  turned  away,  but  looked  back  from  the  farther 
door,  as  a  miser  might  look  back  at  his  treasure. 
His  wife  was  standing  there,  leaning  against  the 
wall ;  he  saw  her  shadow  tremble.  He  put  his  arm 
over  her  shoulder,  and  they  went  down  the  narrow 
stairs  together. 

His  wife  sat  in  the  rush-bottomed  chair,  very 
straight  and  rigid.  You  might  have  said  that  she 
was  one  waiting  for  sentence  of  life  or  death.  He 
crossed  to  the  other  room  and  brought  back  the  big 
and  battered  Bible,  and  opened  it  at  the  leaves  fol- 
lowing the  Apocrypha,  where  lay  all  the  family  rec- 
ords they  had.  At  the  foot  of  the  last  page  was  the 
date  of  the  baby's  birth ;  there  was  hardly  room  for 
one  more.  It  was  not  an  unusual  occurrence,  by  the 


232  The  Elder's  People 

time  the  baby  came.  But  Mamie's  name  made  him 
recall  the  night  when  she  was  given  back  to  them 
after  the  fever,  and  he  went  out  into  the  wintr)^  dark, 
and  saw  the  stars  shining  in  the  deep  midnight  blue, 
far,  far  from  universe  to  universe,  and  the  crisp, 
tvhite  fields  leading  their  level  way  to  the  great  forest 
on  one  side,  and  into  the  soft,  mysterious  glow  of  the 
snowy  horizon  on  the  other.  And  he  felt  a  sweet, 
unnamed  sense  of  innocence  about  him,  as  if  the  soul 
of  his  mother  had  come  out  of  the  immeasurable 
spaces  to  watch  over  the  little  child.  He  shut  the  book 
hurriedly,  and  sat  pulling  at  his  sun-bleached  beard. 
"It  *s  no  use,"  he  said;  "I  can't  give  up  one  of 


'em." 


"  It  seems  such  a  thin'  for  Marnie,"  said  the  wife. 
"  Seems  's  ef  we  had  n't  orter  slight  it.  She  'd  be 
fetched  up  like  a  lady.  And  she  does  love  the  thin's 
thet  ladies  has." 

"  She  loves  us  more." 

The  wife  sighed,  a  long,  low  sigh,  and  took  up 
her  knitting  mechanically.  "  You  don't  suppose  it 's 
stan'in'  in  Charles's  light,  do  ye  ?  "  she  said.  '^  She  'd 
send  him  to  school  an'  ter  college,  certain.  He  'd  know 
all  there  is  ter  know.  He  'd  be  a  great  man,  some  day. 
He  'd  stand  a  chanct  of  being  President,  mebbe." 

"  And  we  'd  be  where  we  be  ! " 

"  I  would  n't  let  that  bender,"  she  said,  bending 
low  over  her  narrow  ings. 

"I  would." 


.  The  Impossible  Choice  233 

"  He  ain't  thet  sort,  anyway.  Mebbe  it  would  n't 
be  right  ter  tek  sech  a  chance  away  from  him,"  she 
murmured,  with  another  long  sigh. 

"  It  would  n't  be  right  to  take  away  from  him  the 
chance  of  bein'  loved  by  his  own  kinsfolks,  of  lovin^ 
them  back,  or  helpin'  up  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
Wy,  wife,  I  sh'd  think  you  wanted  ter  git  red  of 
your  children !  " 

She  looked  up,  with  a  slow,  bewildered  look  in 
her  dark  eyes.  He  had  seen  just  such  a  look  of  soft 
reproach  in  the  eyes  of  a  creature  he  had  had  to  kill. 
"  It  seems  as  ef  we  was  doomin'  of  'em." 

"  Doomin'  'em  to  what  ?  I  did  n't  know  you  was 
so  onhappy,  wife." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't,  I  ain't !  But  thet  "woman  showed 
me  the  diff'runce,  and  it  seems  dretful  selfish  not  to 
let  'em  go,"  she  said,  in  a  moment. 

"  'T  ain't.  'T  ain't,  nowise.  They  're  our'n. 
They  're  our  flesh  an'  blood.  They  're  our  love  an' 
life.  There  's  no  injustice  in  their  sheerin'  our  lot. 
Ef  we  was  rich  they  'd  sheer  it.  An'  so,  as  we  're 
poor,  they  can." 

"  I  do'  know,"  she  said,  rather  slowly;  "  't  seems 
ter  me  thet  I  can  see  Mamy,  now  —  the  way  the 
woman  'd  dress  her.  She  'd  look  like  a  sperrit  —  " 

"Mamy!"  There  was  a  note  of  horror  in  his 
voice,  as  if  his  dead  sister  stood  ready  to  accuse  him 
of  unfaithfulness.  "  No,  I  tell  you,  no,  Louisy  !  Ef 
we  give  one  up,  we  've  got  to  do  it  teetotally,  for 


234  The  Elder's  People 

good  an'  all.  We  're  never  ter  see  thet  one  agin. 
She  ain't  goin'  ter  hev  it  'shamed  of  a  lot  of  poor 
relations,  bimeby." 

"  She  could  n't  help  its  remember  in',"  the  mother 
answered,  defiantly. 

"All  but  the  baby." 

"  She  can't  have  the  baby !  She  can't  have  the 
baby !  That 's  settled !  "  cried  the  mother,  her  shak- 
ing voice  caught  in  a  sob, 

"  I  'd  ruther  she  'd  hev  him  than  any  of  the 
others." 

"  No,  no,  no !  My  little  baby !  The  helpless  lit- 
tle thin' !  "  She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  her  hands 
hiding  her  face,  ashamed  of  tears,  but  glad  of  their 
relief.  "  I  don't  ask  for  much,"  she  sobbed,  "  but 
't  seems  's  if  I  might  keep  my  own  babies !  " 

"  I  sh'd  think  I  was  tryin'  ter  rob  yer  of  'em ! " 
'  "  I  do'  know  but  what  ye  be !  " 

"Come,  Louisy.  Don't  less  quar'l  over  this. 
It 's  too  se'rus.  You  're  all  worked  up.  The  baby  's 
safe  enough.  She  don't  want  no  nussin'  babies. 
An'  little  Jo  's  safe,  though  he  's  so  pindlin'  mebbe 
some  delicate  livin'  'd  be  the  best  for  him  —  " 

"  Soon  's  she  see  he  was  goin'  ter  be  crippled, 
she  'd  send  him  back,  an'  he  'd  miss  it  more  'n  ef  he 
hed  n't  hed  it." 

"  He 's  one  thet  needs  love,  too,  little  Jo  is," 
said  the  father,  reflectively.  "  An'  she  could  n't  love 
him,  no  way,  like  his  own  folks. 


>> 


The  Impossible  C/wice  235 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room,  for  a  while,  but 
the  woman's  stifled  sobs.  She  looked  up  with  a  shud- 
der; the  whole  black  night  seemed  pressed  against 
the  pane  and  staring  in;  now  and  then  the  wind 
stirred  a  vine  there  with  a  restless  tap.  She  rose  to 
light  another  lamp.  "It  's  so  dark,"  she  said, 
"seems  as  if  I  couldn't  see  to  think.  And  it 's  so 
still  I  '11  hev  ter  holler !  "  As  the  shadow  crossed  the 
window  Shep  woke  outside,  and  far  off  Harriman's 
dog  answered  his  bay. 

"  Folks  can  alius  keep  their  dogs !  "  she  said. 

"There,  there,  there!"  exclaimed  her  husband, 
'*you  ain't  no  need  ter  feel  so,  Louisy.  I  guess  xve 
can  keep  what 's  oum.  They  ain't  gone  yit.  They 
ain't  goin'  — none  of  'em.  I  '11  take  the  hull  blame 
business  on  me.  W'y,  yes,  s'pose  thet  pesky  woman 
lost  her  money  !  Where  'd  the  child  be  then  ?  "  — 
and  he  started  to  his  feet  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  kitchen'. 

"Yes I"  cried  the  mother,  looking  up  eagerly 
from  the  lamp  she  was  adjusting,  whose  flame  glit- 
tered in  her  tears ;  "  s'pose  she  did !  'T  ain't  im- 
possible, is  it,  now  ?  "  Then  she  tried  to  brush  the 
tears  back. 

"An'  that  puts  a  new  face  on  it,  you  see.  We 
ain't  stan'in'  in  their  light  sech  an  all-fired  lot,  be 
we?  Wal,  I  was  goin'  ter  say  we  '11  sleep  on  it,  an' 
see  how  it  looks  in  the  momin'.  Sleep  sometimes 
seems  ter  winner  thin's.    But  I  guess  we  may  as  well 


236  The  Elder's  People 

thrash  it  out  neow.  Thet  woman  says  it  will  be  a 
great  thin'  ter  be  saved  from  work.  But  I  do' 
know 's  I  want  ter  save  the  boys  work.  Work  ain't 
no  hardship." 

"  'Thouten  there  's  tew  much  of  it ! " 

"  An'  there  's  a  kind  o'  relish  to  the  livin'  you 
git  outen  the  yarth.  Wen  we  've  done  with  it, 
the  farm  '11  cut  up  inter  market  gardings  for  the 
boys.    It  ain't  ever  been  worked  fer  half  its  wuth." 

"  An'  some  of  'em  may  take  ter  trades.  Jo  's  a 
regular  whittler  a' ready,"  said  the  mother,  picking 
up  her  knitting  again ;  "  but  there  's  the  little  gels." 

"  They  '11  marry ! "  said  their  father.  But  then 
something  dashed  the  triumph  of  his  tone.  "Least- 
ways, it 's  likely.  There  's  husbands  enough  —  sech 
as  they  be.  I  do'  know.  I  'd  kinder  ruther  they 
stopped  ter  hum  whilst  we  did." 

"A  lot  of  little  gran' children  ain't  so  bad,"  said 
his  wife  persuasively.  "  I  would  n't  hev  anybody 
miss  the  pleasure  we  've  hed  in  our  young  'uns." 

"  And  the  little  folks  '11  keep  us  young,  comin' 
back  and  tumblin'  roun'.  Wal,  I  guess  we  '11  chance 
it.  Durn  the  woman !  She  thinks,  because  a  man  's 
got  six  or  seven  children  —  how  many  be  they, 
Louisy  ?  I  never  can  keep  count,  'thouten  I  lot  'em 
off  on  my  fingers." 

"There  's  nine  —  countin'  Mamy." 

"  So  they  be.  Wal,  I  guess  there  's  love  enough 
ter  go  roun',  and  porridge,  tew.   Ary  one  on  'em  's 


The  Impossible  Choice  237 

got  a  better  lookout  'n  Harriman's  poor  youngster. 
How  many 've  they  buried,  Louisy  —  the  Harri- 
mans  ? " 

"  All  they  hed,  but  this  one.  She  was  a  dretful 
shifless  creeter." 

'"T  ain't  every  one  's  got  your  faculty,  Louisy." 

The  color  mounted  to  his  wife's  face  and  burned 
out  the  freckles  there.  "  The  poor  thin'  never  hed  no 
stren'th,"  she  said.  "  She  was  jes'  beat  out,  like  a 
flower  in  the  wind.    She  was  well  meanin'." 

"  So  's  Harriman.  He  's  a-bringin'  of  it  up  by 
han'." 

"  My !  He  '11  never  raise  it  —  an'  this  weather, 
tew.  It  '11  foller  its  mother,  sure.  I  wish  't  —  "  she 
paused,  and  began  to  wind  up  the  ball. 

"Wal  —  what  is  it  you  wisht?" 

"Oh,  nothin'.  'T  ain't  no  matter  —  excep'  fer 
a'-temptin'  Proverdunce.  I  was  goin'  ter  say  't  I 
wish  't  we  had  n't  so  many  of  our  own,  so  's  we 
could  help  Harriman." 

"  Louisy,  I  would  n't  darst  say  sech  words. 
P'raps  we  hev  got  more  'n  our  sheer.  And  it  bears 
on  a  poor  man,  fer  a  fac'."  He  stared  hard  at  the 
crack  in  the  yellow,  whitewashed  wall. 

"  But,  you  see,"  she  added,  brightly,  "  they  ain't 
one  too  many  !  " 

The  clock  struck  stroke  after  stroke,  with  an  air  of 
finishing  the  business.  "  Wal,  I  've  gotter  put  the 
taller  on  my   boots,"   he  said,  stretching  his  long 


238  The  Elder's  People 

length,  with  his  arms  above  his  head;  "guess  this 
lamp  '11  jest  about  last  us  "  —  as  his  wife  turned  out 
the  one  she  had  so  recklessly  lighted. 

"  Talk  o'  work.  I  do'  know  ^s  there 's  any  pleas- 
anter  feelin'  than  jes'  bein'  tired." 

"When  there's  no  more  to  du,"  she  answered. 
"  Did  you  let  the  cat  out  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There  he  's  on  the  winder,  neow.  You  let 
him  in  whilst  I  wind  the  clock.  What  you  barrin' 
the  door  for  ?  "  he  cried,  turning  about.  "  That  door 
ain't  never  bin  barred.  I  guess  the  bolt 's  too  rusted 
to  be  drawed." 

"I  do'  know,"  she  answered,  nervously;  "the 
children  —  " 

He  laughed.  "  I  guess  nobody  won't  git  them 
children  'ith  me  roun',"  he  said.  "  I  wonder  thet 
woman  did  n't  want  this  clock  !  " 

"Ain't  I  told  you?  W'y— " 

"Wal,  she  can't  hev  it,  little  Johnny.  It  was 
gran' sir's,  and  it 's  goin'  ter  be  gran' baby's.  There ! 
I  've  gotter  be  down  to  the  last  bars  by  the  time  the 
birds  stirs.  I  '11  fetch  my  dinner  along.  An'  w'en  that 
critter  comes  by,  you  can  tell  her  we  ain't  doin'  no 
tradin'  in  children,  an'  our'n  '11  stay  where  God  put 
'em.  But  she  can  have  the  old  sekkerterry  she  was 
hankerin'  arter  —  fer  w'at  's  fair.  Did  she  really  say 
fifty  dollars  ? " 

His  wife  nodded  several  times  with  emphasis. 

"By  mighty!"  he  cried,  with  his  eyes  flashing, 


The  Impossible  Choice  239 

"  I  sh'd  think  she  hed  a  screw  loose.  Don't  seem 
reasonable.  King!  she  ain't  fit  to  be  trusted  with 
money,  let  alone  children.  W'y,  I  ain't  hed  so  much 
as  thet  in  han'  since  Bates  was  hung!  Seems  like 
highway  rob'ry,  or  blackmail,  or  suthin'.  P'raps 
we  'd  better  say  half  that.  'T  ain't  no  use  to  us." 

"  I  keep  rawsberry  jam  in  it,  and  the  jell  —  thet 
is,  w'en  there  's  any  to  keep.  An'  the  sugar  cookies," 
she  added,  hesitatingly.  "I  guess  I'd  better  say 
sixty.  Ef  she's  ofFerin'  so  much,  she'll  give  more. 
She  's  made  me  sech  a  sight  o'  trouble  I  don't  feel 
ter  spare  her." 

"She  didn't  mean  ter  make  yer  no  trouble, 
Louisy." 

"Anyheow,  she  made  it,  —  a-wantin'  my  chil- 
dren! An'  she  wants  the  old  flowered  chany,  tew. 
For  my  part,  I  'd  ruther  hev  some  new  w'ite  'ith  a 
gold  band.  And  I  forgit  w'at  she  said  she  'd  give 
fer  the  spinnin'  wheel  in  the  garret,  an'  the  brass 
warmin'  pan,  an'  gran'marm's  big  copper  kettle  to 
set  a  s'rub  or  a  christian-anthem.  But  I  do'  know  es 
it 's  jes'  the  thin'  ter  take  advantage  of  a  weak  mind. 
Ef  I  knowed  fer  certain  she  wus  n't  a  little  off — 
why,  father,  I  don'  b'lieve  but  there 'd  be  enough  to 
buy  a  parlor  organ  !  " 

"  Ef  we  don't  put  it  agin'  Charles's  schoolin'." 

Her  face  fell  a  little.  "  Wife,  I  'd  like  ter  give  ye 
all  the  desires  of  yer  heart,"  he  said,  wistfully. 

"  I  don't  want  anythin'  but  w'at  I  've  got ! "  she 


240  The  Elder's  People 

cried,  with  a  sudden  passion,  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck  in  unwonted  abandon,  and  hiding 
her  face  a  moment  in  his  sleeve ;  "  I  Ve  got  you  and 
the  children ! " 

"  And  I  've  got  the  best  wife,  and  they  Ve  got  the 
best  mother  in  the  hull  of  Christendom.  Wal,  we  '11 
hev  to  be  a-stirrin'  'bout  as  soon  's  we  're  asleep,  and 
it's  close  to  no  time  at  all,  neow." 

"  I  'm  sorter  sorry  fer  that  woman,  though,"  she 
said,  standing  off  and  twisting  up  her  fallen  hair.  It 
was  pretty  hair  still.  "  She  's  a  real  lady.  She 's  real 
lonesome.  She  said  't  would  be  like  a  sunbeam  in 
the  house,  like  flowers,  like  music.  She  'd  orter  take 
two  of  'em,  she  said." 

*^'  Sho !  An'  she  can't  hev  one.  Jes'  hear  that 
ere  owl  a-laughin'  at  it.  That 'sw' at  I  call  music." 

"  She  said  I  'd  no  idee,  'th  all  them  a-swarmin' 
roun',  w'at  it  wus  ter  hev  an  empty  house  and  an 
empty  heart  like  hern." 

''  Wal,  then,  I  'm  sorry  fer  her,  tew.  But  I  don't 
feel  no  call  ter  give  her  my  children.  You  can  give 
her  the  sekkerterry,  ef  yer  wanter." 

"  You  don't  b'lieve  the  children  ever  '11  be  a-layin' 
of  it  up  agin'  us,  do  ye  ?  " 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  they  '11  ever  need  ter  know  any- 
thin'  about  it,  'thouten  you  tell  'em.  An'  if  they 
du,  I  guess  they  '11  think  there 's  nothin'  in  heaven 
above, or  in  'arth  beneath,  or  in  the  waters  that's 
under  the  'arth,  better  'n  father  an'  mother  love.  By 


The  Impossible  Choice  241 

George,  there  's  that  durned  rooster  talkin'  about 


momin' ! " 


Wal,  you  go  'long  to  bed.  I  've  got  a  sponge 
to  set."  She  went  to  her  work,  quick-footed,  light- 
hearted,  her  pulses  singing  a  note  of  thanksgiving. 
Presently  all  was  quiet  in  the  old  farmhouse,  except 
for  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  nothing  stirred 
but  the  shadow  of  a  climbing  rose  that  the  red  wan- 
ing moon  threw  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  that  the 
cat  crept  round  to  watch  cautiously  and  play  with 
furtively. 

Sunset  was  pouring  a  purple  glor}^  across  the  fields, 
the  next  evening,  when  the  little  girls  ran  to  meet 
their  father,  who  came  up  slowly  and  wearily  and 
somewhat  hesitatingly,  carrjang  an  odd-looking 
bundle  quite  beyond  their  reach.  "I  thought  I'd 
bring  it,  myself,  this  time,  'stid  o'  the  doctor,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  ain't  ast  your  mother  yet  ef  she  wants 
it.  Wife,"  he  added,  as  she  came  to  the  door  at  the 
tumult,  "  Harriman  's  been  killed  by  the  fall  of  that 
old  ellum  he  was  alius  'lottin'  ter  cut  down.  An'  I 
come  by,  an'  there  was  this  baby  'most  perishin'  — • 
hungry  as  a  bird  that 's  fell  from  the  nest." 

"  You  don't  say  !  The  poor  soul !  " 

"  I  do'  know.  Your  ban's  is  pretty  full  up,  now. 
But,  ef  they  send  it  to  the  poor' us,  it  '11  die  afore 
it  knows  w'at  ails  it.  Somehow,  I  sorter  felt  pitiful 
for  the  little  thin'." 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,"  came  a  chorus  from  tip- 


242  The  Elder's  People 

toeing,  peering,  clamoring  children,  "  it 's  a  baby — 
another  baby  !  Oh,  you  '11  keep  it ;  do  say  you  '11 
keep  it,  mother !  We  '11  rock  it,  we  '11  —  " 

"  The  poor  mite !  Here,  father,  give  it  to  me," 
said  his  wife,  holding  out  her  arms,  the  wild-rose 
pink  flushing  up  her  face.  "  Men  are  the  onhandiest 
—  goodness,  it  ain't  no  heft  at  all !  Dear  sakes  alive, 
there  's  nothin'  to  it !  Poor  Harriman !  —  there ! 
'T  ain't  much  more  trouble  ter  fetch  up  two  together 
than  one.  I  'm  glad  you  was  goin'  by,  father !  " 


A  VILLAGE  DRESSMAKER 


XI 

A  ViUage  Dressmaker 

THEY  might  have  reminded  one  of  the  chorus 
of  old  voices  in  a  Greek  play  —  the  two  old 
women  in  the  last  daylight,  with  but  one  thought 
between  them ;  their  interest  was  so  impersonal.  Life 
was  to  them  a  grave  affair ;  they  regarded  its  slow 
unfolding  with  serious,  apprehensive  eyes.  Its  tone 
was  that  of  the  dull  russet  of  the  long  fields  and 
round-backed  hills  that  made  their  dreary  outlook 
most  of  the  year.  They  expected  nothing  fortunate. 
Their  dead  level  of  monotony  was  disturbed  by  only 
one  ray  of  sunshine  —  the  going  and  coming  of 
Susanne. 

"  I  do'  know  but  it  makes  me  feel  real  young  again, 
ter  see  Susanne  come  along,"  said  one  of  them,  her 
needle  in  the  air.  *'She  rises  the  hill  like  a  bird. 
There 's  a  color  in  that  face,  and  a  touch  and  go  in 
them  feet,  thet  puts  me  in  mind  o'  myself  fifty  years 
sence.  It 's  a  gret  while  ago.  Oh,  I  'd  liketer  be 
young  again.  But  there,  what 's  the  use  !  " 

"  No  use  at  all,"  sighed  the  other,  holding  at  a 
new  angle  her  needle's  impossible  flower.  "  No 
more 'n  ter  run  ef  ye  see  the  sky  a-fallin'.  I'd  a' 
made  thin's  difFrunt,  seems  ter  me.  Leastwise  so  fur 's 
a  woman's  growin'  old  comes  to." 


246  The  Elder's  People 

"  There  would  n't  be  gran' mothers  an'  gret-aunts, 
ef  they  did  n't  grow  old." 

"  I  guess  the  gran' mothers  an'  gret-aunts  might 
be  considered.  You  better  believe  they  don't  like  it. 
I  guess  the  children  can  go  'thout  gran'mothers  bet- 
ter 'n  the  gran'mothers  can  go  'thout  youth." 

I  think  it  would  be  good  to  be  a  gran' mother." 

"  I  'm  'shamed  on  ye,  Cely !  I  'd  liketer  be 
Susanne's  age  forever !  " 

"  That 's  askin'  tew  much,  Ann.  I  do'  know  but 
w'at  I  'd  liketer  stayed  —  say  forty,  a  hunderd  year. 
Wen  yer  forty,  ef  you  was  pretty  you're  pretty 
still,  and  ef  you  was  n't  you  're  jes'  beginnin'  ter  be 
—  in  a  different  way ;  an'  you  've  got  real  common- 
sense  fer  the  fust  time.  Yes;  I  'd  liketer  've  stayed 
forty  a  hunderd  year,  an'  then  be  blowed  away." 

"You'd  be  dreadin'  the  blow  dretfle,  come  the 
ninety-ninth,"  said  Miss  Ann,  with  an  absent  look. 

"  I  'd  feel  I  'd  hed  my  sheer.  As  't  is,  you  don't 
no  sooner  sense  thin's,  'n  puff,  they  've  gone  by ! " 

Wal,  I  'm  glad  Susanne  's  young,  anyway.  It 
makes  me  ache  sometimes  ter  think  on  her  growin' 
old  like  us." 

"  She  won't  grow  old  like  us,"  said  Miss  Celia, 
bringing  her  gaze  back  from  outdoors.  "  Don't  ye 
see  w'at  makes  thet  step  so  light  ?  Her  heart  jes' 
lifts  her  feet.  He  ain't  wuth  it,  ef  he  is  Squire's  son. 
Lor',  I  knowed  his  mother !  But  gels  will  be  gels  to 
the  eend  o'  the  chapter." 


A  Village  Dressmaker  247 

"  To  the  eend  o'  the  chapter,"  sighed  Miss  Ann 
again.  And  she  threaded  her  needle  and  went  back 
to  her  tambour-work.  "  Don  Davison  's  a  takin'  fel- 
ler," she  said.  "  His  father  was  afore  him.  Seems  ter 
me  my  spettacles  ain't  no  kind  o'  good  !  "  And  she 
glanced  furtively  at  her  sister. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Miss  Celia,  "I  s'pose  we've 
gotter  be  content  'ith  thin's  as  they're  ordered." 

"Content's  one  thin',  an'  happiness  is  another," 
said  Miss  Ann,  snipping  her  thread. 

"Then,  ef  we  can't  hev  happiness  of  our  own, 
we've  gotter  git  it  makin'  the  happiness  of  others. 
An'  for  my  part  I  'm  happy  w'en  I  see  Susanne 
happy." 

"  So  be  I,  so  be  I !  There  she  is  now  "j  as  Susanne 
came  in  with  her  arms  full  of  parcels. 

The  eyes  were  bright,  large,  soft  hazel  eyes.  But 
the  seashell  color  on  the  cheek  was  the  work  of  the 
wind,  and  already  fading.  The  smile,  however,  made 
the  face  luminous.  If  they  had  not  loved  the  girl 
neither  of  the  old  sisters  would  have  liked  that  ma- 
donna type;  but  a  painter  might  have  called  her 
beautiful.  A  certain  serenity  of  nature,  apparent  in 
the  quiet  face,  made  you  think  of  the  shrine  where 
a  lamp  bums  on  a  windless  night. 

Don  Davison  himself  thought  Susanne  only  pleas- 
ant-looking. But  he  had  known  her  since  childhood ; 
and  at  last  he  had  decided  that,  in  default  of  bet- 
ter, her  companionship  for  life  was  his  desire.    And 


248  The  Elder's  People 

Susanne,  whose  emotions  had  revolved  around  him 
silently  for  years,  went  walking  on  air. 

It  was  agreed  that  nothing  should  be  said  of  the 
affair  at  present,  except  to  the  old  aunts.  Her  happi- 
ness was  so  great,  Susanne  would  keep  it  to  herself 
awhile  before  people  picked  it  to  pieces.  They  would 
think  Susanne  was  doing  very  well  for  herself  — 
she  the  dressmaker  of  the  region,  he  the  son  of  Squire 
Davison,  but  lately  come  into  his  inheritance.  Not 
so  much  of  an  inheritance  to  be  sure  but  a  large  one 
for  the  Settlement  that  as  yet  had  neither  name  nor 
certain  government. 

"Wal,  Susanne,"  said  the  old  aunts  in  chorus, 
"  Mis'  Brooks  satersfied  ?  Pay  ye  ? '' 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Aunt  Ann.  More  than  I  expected, 
Aunt  Celia.  She  said  she  'd  never  had  one  set  so  since 
the  gown  she  stood  up  to  be  merried  in ! " 

"  Sho  !  She  ain't  ev^er  been  marri'd." 

*'  And  that  put  me  in  mind  —  and  what  do  you 
guess  I  did  ?  I  'm  most  'shamed  to  tell !  I  walked 
clear  'way  down  to  get  the  stage  to  Salt  Water,  so 't 
the  folks  here  would  n't  know."  And  the  blush 
mantled  her  face  again  as  she  unrolled  first  a  piece 
of  sheer  muslin,  and  then  a  roll  of  net,  and  then  a 
cloud  of  tulle. 

"  For  the  land's  sake,  Susanne !  "  cried  Miss  Ann. 

"A  weddin'-veil !  "  cried  Miss  Celia. 

"  Yes.  It  wam't  dear,  either.  The  other  thin's 
were  cheap.  I  'd  always  thought  they  cost  lots  more. 


A  Village  Dressmaker  249  . 

I'll    embroider  the  musling,"  fluffing   it  over  her 
hands,  "and  let  in  the  net  in  sprays  an'  branches, 
and  it  '11  look  like  frost  on  the  pane  —  " 
"'Twill  be  reel  lace,"  said  Miss  Celia. 
"  But,  my  gracious,  child,  the  time  it  '11  take ! " 
said  Miss  Ann. 

"I  shall  do  it  in  the  odd  minutes.  I  wouldn't 
think  of  it,  only  —  you  know,  —  his  —  his  wife  " 
—  and  the  blush  followed  the  word  again  —  "  ought 
to  come  to  him  in  the  best."  In  the  fullness  of  her 
heart  she  must  speak  to  some  one  —  and  the  old 
chorus  was,  after  all,  a  part  of  herself.  And  then,  to 
take  their  eager  eyes  from  her  face,  she  threw  net  and 
tulle  over  them,  as  they  held  their  heads  together, 
till  they  looked  as  if  a  snowstorm  had  fallen  on  two 
gnarled  and  withered  trees.  And  she  lifted  a  comer, 
and  fell  upon  them  with  kisses,  and  gathered  it  all 
about  herself  in  surprise,  as  Don  came  in  and  stared 
at  her,  having  no  idea  Susanne  could  ever  look  like 
that! 

She  hurried  her  finery  away  before  she  went  out 
into  the  orchard  with  Don.  But  when  later  she  took 
it  up  to  the  spare  room,  where  she  did  her  sewing, 
and  planned  the  way  she  would  cut  and  let  in  the 
lace  for  the  garlands  of  flowers,  she  was  in  such 
an  ecstasy  as  painter  or  sculptor  knows  over  the 
dream  of  his  ideal,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  beauty 
could  do  no  more. 

The  orchard  was  always  a  treasure-house  to  Su- 


250  The  Elder's  People 

sanne.  After  long  wintry  weather  the  first  swelling 
of  its  buds  was  like  the  promise  of  a  friend ;  and 
when  the  twisted  boughs  were  wreathed  in  bloom, 
she  felt  the  presence  of  sweet  unknown  force,  and 
walking  under  the  fragrant  boughs  she  often  im- 
pulsively and  unconsciously  lifted  hand  and  face 
to  caress  them.  "  I  shall  work  apple-blossoms,"  she 
said.  "  I  owe  it  to  them.  The  dear  apple-tree  stands 
by  the  door,  and  is  a  part  of  home,  and  stretches  its 
boughs  like  a  great  brooding  mother-bird.  There 
could  n't  be  anything  better  for  a  wedding-gown." 

It  was  very  inexpensive  stuff,  the  muslin,  the  bob- 
binet;  but  the  art  of  her  fancy  and  her  fingers  would 
make  it  something  fine,  as  the  woman  marrying  Don 
ought  to  wear.  She  knew  nothing  of  mighty  Chap- 
man's Helen  of  Troy,  "shadowing  her  beauty  in 
white  veils,"  but  the  picture  she  had  of  herself  when 
Don  should  see  her  arrayed  in  this  snowy  cloud  — 
no,  the  picture  she  had  of  Don,  at  that  future  mo- 
ment, made  her  heart  stand  still  with  joy. 

How  long  she  had  loved  him  —  with  what  wor- 
ship! And  no  one  had  ever  guessed  it.  He  had 
never  known  it  till  now.  She  had  never  let  her 
thoughts  dwell  on  it  an  instant,  till  its  compressed 
intensity  startled  her  into  blushes  whenever  Don  was 
near;  blushes  that  made  her  all  at  once  so  radiant 
that  he  wondered  at  himself  for  dallying  —  and 
dallied  then  no  longer. 

Susanne  would  have  plenty  of  time  for  the  work 


A  Village  Dressmaker  251 

she  planned ;  her  aunts,  who  added  to  their  little  in- 
come by  transferring  the  French  embroider}'  on  old 
capes  and  collars  and  kerchiefs  to  new  ones  —  which 
they  sent  away  to  acquaintances  who  paid  a  trifle  for 
them  as  for  things  they  really  did  n't  want  —  having 
long  ago  taught  her  all  their  pretty  open  and  closed 
stitches.  Don  was  starting  for  the  West,  where  were 
some  doubtful  mortgages  of  his  father's,  and  it 
would  take  time  to  adjust  afl^airs  there.  And  although 
Susanne  would  cut  and  baste  most  of  the  summer 
and  fall  gowns  for  the  upper  and  lower  parishes  of 
the  Settlement  she  would  have  this  also  done  by  Oc- 
tober. And  it  was  then  that  she  would  go  to  the  old 
place  under  the  sycamores  where  Don  was  bom  and 
where  she  meant  to  make  his  life  as  happy  as  a  for- 
tunate dream.  What  hopes,  what  prayers,  what  ten- 
derness, what  faith  went  into  those  odd  moments  of 
her  weaving  flower  and  leaf  and  stem,  while  her  flying 
needle  left  the  trail  of  snowy  bud  and  bloom  behind  it ! 
You,  who  have  ordered  your  wedding  splendor  from 
afar,  can  guess  of  it.  You  who  have  wrought  with 
your  own  hand,  counting  the  threads,  can  feel  the  old 
thrill  in  thinking  of  it.  And  neither  of  you  can  have 
had  anything  much  lovelier  than  the  mimic  frost -worl 
fallen  on  all  the  folds  when  the  task  was  finished. 

Don  wrote  from  the  West,  of  course.  If  the  tone 
of  quiet  affection  in  the  first  letter  touched  her  pas- 
sionate adoration  with  a  chill,  she  rebuked  herself. 
She  said  that  was  Don's  way ;  he  had  always  found 


252  The  Elder's  People 

it  difficult  to  express  himself  fully.  She  knew  he 
loved  her;  he  had  said  so.  That  was  enough.  She 
read  and  re-read  what  he  did  say,  and  carried  the 
letter  next  her  heart  till  another  came.  But  she  an- 
swered it  in  the  same  tranquil  phrase ;  anything  else 
she  felt  indelicate. 

As  time  went  on,  to  be  sure,  another  was  slow  to 
arrive.  But  what  of  that  ?  He  trusted  her  to  under- 
stand; it  was  all  the  more  welcome  when  it  did 
come,  even  if  brief,  and,  as  she  might  have  thought, 
a  trifle  cool. 

It  was  long  past  the  promised  date  when  Don 
himself  arrived.  Being  in  the  West  it  had  seemed 
worth  while  to  see  it  and  have  its  experiences.  At 
last  he  wrote  that  all  was  done  for  the  present ;  but 
he  would  have  to  go  out  again  some  day,  and  then 
he  would  be  taking  his  wife  with  him.  The  phrase 
made  Susanne  's  face  burn  and  ripple  with  smiles, 
and  tears  of  pure  happiness  overflowed  her  eyes  like 
live  crystals. 

She  could  not  help  showing  that  letter  to  her 
aunts ;  and  the  old  chorus  trembled  and  fluttered  and 
exclaimed  together,  and  felt  the  action  of  the  drama, 
and  went  secretly  to  break  off  a  fragment  of  the 
remnant  of  the  wedding-cake,  baked  in  a  saucer,  and 
taste  it  with  deliberation  and  chirping,  and  pro- 
nounce it  as  good  as  that  of  Susanne's  mother  — 
"at  least,  if  there  had  been  just  one  drop  more  of 
the  0-be-joyful  in  it!  " 


A  Village  Dressmaker  253 

And  while  they  were  doing  that,  Susanne  went 
and  looked  at  the  wedding-gown  overlaid  with  the 
veil,  finished  and  put  away  in  one  of  the  deep  draw- 
ers of  the  old  armoire,  with  a  reverent  joy.  It  was 
the  outward  and  visible  token  of  Don's  love  and  of 
all  her  blest  future. 

And  after  that  a  week  passed,  and  other  weeks. 
There  was  a  light  then  in  Don 's  room  in  the  old 
mansion;  a  light  in  the  dining-room  there,  too. 
Don  would  be  with  her  presently.  She  kindled  a  fire 
on  the  hearth  of  the  keeping-room,  and  waited. 
The  clock  in  the  other  room  struck  nine;  a  long 
hour,  and  it  struck  again.  She  heard  her  aunts  make 
ready  for  the  night,  and  go  creaking  upstairs,  glad 
in  what  they  thought  her  gladness.  And  still  Don 
did  not  come.  The  fire  threw  strange  shadows  about 
the  dim  place  —  disquieting  shadows;  they  seemed  to 
threaten  her.  An  owl  in  the  beechwood  thicket  at 
the.  foot  of  the  orchard  began  to  shrill  his  unearthly 
laughter  as  if  he  were  mocking  her. 

There  were  no  lights  now  in  the  Squire's  house^ 
It  must  have  been  a  mistake;  probably  the  houses- 
keeper  had  been  arranging  the  rooms  for  him.  She 
went  to  the  door  and  looked  out  at  the  night,  the 
soft  purple  starry  night  across  whose  deep  a  meteor 
slipped.  It  gave  her  a  strange  sensation  of  change  — 
how  soon  gladness  and  grief  would  be  gone  —  and 
the  stars  above  still  there !  She  could  not  have  told 
why  it  impressed  her  with  foreboding  and  dull  terror. 


254  The  Elder's  People 

But  the  next  day  she  knew  that  without  doubt 
Don  was  at  home.  The  postmaster  had  seen  him  go- 
ing into  Captain  Mayhew's.  Captain  Mayhew  had 
lately  come  up  from  Salt  Water  and  bought  the 
Hills'  place.  Then  he  would  certainly  be  with  her 
before  night,  she  said.  It  was  impossible  to  sew. 
She  went  joyously  down  the  orchard,  that  he  might 
come  after  her  there  in  all  the  spicy  odors  of  the 
apple  heaps;  and  she  sat  looking  out  at  the  cham- 
paign country  that  stretched  below  and  beyond  till 
lost  in  violet  vapors.  But  although  she  lingered  till 
the  red  sunset  burned  like  a  coal  in  the  ashes  of  the 
mists,  and  the  smoke  of  burning  woods  and  stubble 
was  heavy  and  pungent  on  the  air  whose  evening 
chill  wrapped  her  like  a  cold  cloak,  Don  did  not 
come. 

Susanne  rose  with  a  heavy  heart  in  the  morning. 
The  bright  blue  garish  day  made  her  dizzy.  She 
knew  she  had  no  right  to  feel  so,  but  something  told 
her  Don  would  never  come  again.  She  assorted  her 
patterns,  and  sharpened  her  scissors,  and  went  to 
work. 

"  Cely,"  whispered  Miss  Ann,  her  eyes  looking 
as  if  they  had  seen  a  ghost,  "did  you  know  Don 
Davison  was  to  home  ? " 

"  I  seen  him  ten  days  ago,"  said  Miss  Celia.  "  He 
was  along  'ith  that  Mayhew  gel  —  the  one  thet's 
jes'  home  fum  the  'Cademy.  An'  he  was  lookin'  's  ef 
he  never  see  blue  eyes  an'  yaller  hair  afore. 


A  Village  Dressmaker  255 

"  Rony  Mayhew  is  kind  o'  pretty — peaches  an' 
cream  sort.  Should  n't  you  'a'  thought  he  'd  'a'  b'en 
ter  see  Susanne  fust  thin'  ?  " 
Cert  in. 

"  S'pose  she  knows  he's  back  ?  " 

"Look  an'  see,"  said  Miss  Celia. 

"Oh,  Cely!  Oh,  Ann!"  sighed  the  old  chorus, 
as  at  some  remembrance  too  remote  for  tears.  "  You 
rekerlek  his  father !  " 

Yes,  Susanne  knew.  She  was  going  about  in  a 
half  bewildered  way.  Her  face  had  grown  pallid, 
her  features  sharp,  her  wide-open  eyes  had  the  gloom 
of  eyes  that  look  into  a  bottomless  abyss. 

"She's  thinner 'n  her  own  shadder,"  said  Miss 
Ann. 

"Don  Davison  don't  desarve  no  sech  feelin'." 

"  An'  his  father  did  n't  afore  him,"  they  sighed 
together  again  in  chorus. 

One  day  came  a  last  letter  to  Susanne.  Don  told 
her  that  it  was  best  he  should  be  frank.  That  he  had 
thought  she  was  the  one  he  would  take  home,  and 
with  whom  he  should  live  his  life.  If  she  held  him 
to  the  bond,  it  should  be  so  now,  and  no  more  said. 
But  when  he  made  the  bond  he  had  not  seen  Rowena 
Mayhew.  Now,  life  would  hardly  be  worth  living 
without  Rowena.  Of  course  he  was  not  sure;  but 
he  thought  Rowena  felt  as  he  did.  He  was  glad  no 
one  had  been  told  of  their  past  relations.  He  would 
never  speak  of  them  —  not  even  to  Rowena.   He 


256  The  Elder's  People 

was  fond  of  Susanne;  but  he  hoped  she  would  see 
there  had  been  a  mistake,  and  remain  his  friend,  as 
he  was  always  hers. 

His  friend !  The  great  tide  of  love  surged  back 
upon  her  heart,  a  frozen  flood.  To  be  thrown  away 
like  a  leaf  withered  in  one's  hand !  To  suppose  she 
could  hold  him  to  his  bond !  And  for  that  child ! 
She  walked  the  room  as  if  driven  by  a  whirlwind; 
and  then  she  sat  among  her  threads  and  thrums  and 
patterns,  turned  to  stone.  But  at  last  the  drop  of 
angry  blood  fired  all  the  rest;  she  tore  the  letter, 
whose  only  warmth  was  that  she  had  given  it,  from 
its  resting-place,  put  it  with  this  and  with  the  others, 
with  the  pencil  case  he  had  given  her,  with  the  slen- 
der gold  chain  that  had  been  his  mother's,  and  that 
she  had  taken  with  a  double  love,  his  dead  mother 
having  to  her  a  certain  religious  sanctity.  And  she 
took  the  ring,  that  she  had  worn  on  a  ribbon  round 
her  neck,  the  little  plain  band  that  was  to  have  been 
her  wedding-ring,  and  to  be  buried  with  her  that  she 
might  rise  with  it  on  her  hand  the  last  day ;  and  she 
made  a  parcel  and  went  out  after  dark,  her  head 
wrapped  in  a  shawl,  and  left  it  in  the  hands  of  the 
old  woman  who  opened  the  Davison  door  and  peered 
after  her.  "Looks  like  Susanne,"  muttered  the  old 
housekeeper.  ^'But  can't  be.  'T  ain't  jes'  her  size,  nei- 
ther. Can't  be  thet  Mayhew  gal,  mebbe  ?  They  're 
about  of  a  talth."  And  her  old  heart  leaped  with 
Lope;  if  the  Mayhew  girl  had  brought  back  Don's 


A  Village  Dressmaker  257 

presents,  she,  who  had  grown  gray  in  the  place, 
would  not  be  leaving  it. 

And  Susanne,  hurrying  home  in  the  black  night, 
with  the  wind  blowing  up  storm,  wished  that  the 
darkness  might  swallow  her,  and  annihilate  her,  and 
hinder  her  forever  from  all  knowing  and  feeling. 
Storm  and  darkness  had  always  terrified  Susanne; 
she  had  felt  like  a  straw,  a  mote,  in  the  grasp  of  the 
strong  unseen  wind.  But  now  they  were  a  part  of 
her  —  if  they  could  but  take  her  to  themselves! 

Susanne  sat  down  in  her  ashes.  And  the  old  aunts 
sat  in  ashes,  too. 

"It's  too  bad,  dears,  to  make  you  so  gloomy," 
said  Susanne  at  last,  one  morning  when  the  world 
seemed  wrapped  in  a  gray  veil.  "You  must  n't  think 
I  care.  Much,  that  is.  Only  it  is  gettin'  used  to  the 
change."  And  by  and  by,  when  her  aunts  heard  her 
singing  over  her  work,  a  gay  song  she  had  many  a 
time  sung  w^ith  Don,  they  looked  at  each  other  in 
consternation,  and  then  looked  out  of  the  window  to 
see  if  the  snow  were  really  falling,  or  if  it  were  only 
the  drift  of  the  cherr^'-petals  of  last  spring,  when  the 
bees  were  swarming,  and  before  any  of  this  coil 
came  about. 

"Land  sakes,  how  can  she! "  said  IVIiss  Ann. 

"  I  'd  'a'  thought  she'd  b'en  more  tenacious,"  said 
Miss  Celia.  "  But  he 's  ben  gone  this  some  time,  and 
absence  is  like  hangin'  suthin'  on  the  line  to  fade. 

Susanne  had  carried  to  the  Elder's  wife  the  new 


258  The  Elder's  People 

alpaca  she  had  cut  and  basted  for  her.  It  had  stopped 
snowing;  and  the  wide  country-side,  in  its  soft  folds 
of  white  under  the  pale  purpling  sky,  that  a  month  ago 
would  have  made  it  seem  as  if  the  round  earth  were 
taking  wings,  now  stretched  like  the  desert  of  her  for- 
saken life  before  her.    Nothing  mattered  any  more. 

"  Massy  sakes,  Susanne !  "  her  Aunt  Ann  ex- 
claimed, as  she  came  in,  staying  the  pruning  of  her 
red  geraniums,  "  who  do  you  guess  hes  b'en  here  ?  " 

"  You  '11  have  ter  know.  It 's  Rowena  Mayhew," 
said  her  Aunt  Celia,  before  Susanne  had  time  to 
guess.  "  She  *s  brought  her  trousser,  she  says.  She 
wants  you  to  make  her  dresses." 

"  Make  her  dresses !  " 

"  Wal,  I  thought  so,  too,  the  little  tyke  !  But  then 
again  you  mightn't  wanter  lose  the  job;  an'  set 
folks  ter  talkin',  tew.  And  I  told  her  ter  leave  the 
thin's  — " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right.  I  '11  make  them,"  said 
Susanne  unconcernedly.  "  How  good  that  ginger- 
bread smells!  I  '11  have  a  piece." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me ! "  said  the  old  chorus  again, 
when  she  had  gone.   "  How  can  she !  " 

But  Susanne  did  not  let  herself  think.  What  dif- 
ference did  anything  make?  It  was  all  in  the  day's 
work. 

Rowena  came  to  the  village  dressmaker  the  next 
day ;  and  Susanne  took  her  up  to  the  sewing-room. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  see  how  pretty  the  girl  was 


A  Village  Dressmaker  259 

as  she  hovered  over  and  undid  the  parcels.  What 
jewel  eyes  under  their  long,  curling  lashes,  what  rose- 
leaf  skin,  what  sweetness  in  the  smile !  How  inno- 
cent the  little  thing  was,  —  perhaps  how  ignorant, 
—  but  what  a  childish  grace  and  charm  !  No  won- 
der, no  wonder —  Not  that  Susanne  thought  any 
of  this;  it  was  only  the  instant's  impression. 

"There's  two  prints,  and  a  white  pique,  and  a 
cashmere,  and  an  organdie,  and  a  silk,  and  a  blue 
flannel  wrapper.  And  I  think  that 's  doing  pretty 
well,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Rowena.  "  I  did  think  of 
goin'  to  the  city.  Father  said  I  might.  But  you 
made  Mis'  Brooks's  thin's  so  st)'lish  —  " 

"  You  're  real  kind,"  said  Susanne,  as  she  was 
expected  to  say,  leaning  on  the  tip  of  the  scissors. 

"  No,"  said  Rowena,  "  you  're  the  kind  one,  to 
make  'em  with  all  you  have  to  do,  and  me  in  such 
a  hurr)\  And  then,  you  know  it 's  savin'  to  me,  the 
difference  in  price,  and  I  '11  have  that  much  more  to 
spend  on  the  parlor.  I  want  a  parlor  all  my  own, 
and  not  his  mother's  an'  gran'mother's  old  thin's !  " 
Susanne  caught  her  breath ;  they  would  have  been  so 
sacred  to  her!  "  Of  course,  Mr.  Davison  says  he'll 
git  everj'thin'  I  want,"  continued  Rowena.  "But 
you  know  I  don't  want  him  to  git  ever}thin' !  " 

"  No,"  said  Susanne.  "  How  you  goin'  ter  have 
them  made  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  How  would  you  ?  " 

"  Thev  're  nice  colors,"  said  Susanne. 


260  The  Elder's  People  ' 

"  Oh,  I  see  you  love  pretty  thin's,  an'  so  do  I/' 
cried  Rowena.  "  I  know  you  '11  make  them  up  ele- 
gant ! ''  And  she  threw  off  her  wraps  and  began  to 
rummage  among  Susanne's  poor  fashion-plates. 
"  Oh,  it  don't  seem  true,  it  don't  seem  possible," 
she  said,  looking  up,  —  the  large,  liquid  eyes  like 
blue  flowers  full  of  dew  in  the  morning, —  "that 
it 's  me,  that  I  'm  goin'  to  be  married  —  and  to 
him  !  You  've  known  him  this  ever  so  long  —  don't 
you  think  he  's  —  he 's  —  " 

"He'll  make  you  a  real  good  husband,"  said 
Susanne.  "  This  cashmere  would  go  well  with  terra- 
cotta bands." 

"And  isn't  this  organdie  lovely?  I'll  have  it 
flounced,"  and  she  threw  an  end  of  it  round  her 
face  and  ran  to  the  glass.  "  Won't  I  look  like  a 
rose  in  it  ?  Don  says  I  will." 

"I'll  take  your  measures,"  said  Susanne.  "You 
can  come  this  day  next  week  "  —  when  she  had  set 
down  the  last  number. 

"  Oh,  can't  I  come  before  that  ?  You  know  there 
is  n't  so  very  much  time.  Don  's  in  such  a  takin'  to 
have  it  soon." 

"  I  '11  put  by  Mis'  Ruggles's  caliker,  an'  you  can 
come  to-morrer,"  said  Susanne. 

"  You  're  jest  an  angel !  "  cried  Rowena.  "  I  won- 
der Don  did  n't  take  you  instid  o'  me  !  He  's  known 
you  so  long  —  and  you  're  so  good.  And  you  're 
reely  so  pretty,  too !  But  love  goes  where  it 's  sent," 


A  Village  Dressmaker  261 

she  added  sagely.  "  My !  You  must  be  tired  !  You  've 
gone  all  white.  Why  don't  you  set  down  an'  rest  ? 
He  give  me  this  watch  "  —  putting  it  on  again. 
"  It  was  his  sister's.  His  sister  and  I  would  have 
ben  reel  good  frien's.  How  I  am  talkin' !  There  's 
somethin'  about  you  makes  me  —  I  don't  know 
why.  You  're  jest  the  same  's  you  was  at  the  Districk 
School  when  I  was  a  tot  an'  you  useter  take  me  into 
your  seat  an'  give  me  nice  bits  of  your  dinners  an' 
wash  my  face  an'  ban's,  an'  kiss  me  afterwards.  You 
listen  —  an'  your  great,  serious  eyes  —  don't  you 
never  smile  ?  Oh,  I  have  n't  had  any  one  I  could 
say  thin's  to,  and  I  'm  so  happy  I  can't  keep  it  to 
myself!  I  don't  suppose  you  can  understand  it  as 
well  as  if  you  'd  ever  b'en  engaged  yourself.  It 's  — 
it's  like  a  new  world.  Don  says  he  never  was  truly 
in  love  before,  and  I  'm  sure  /  never  was !  And  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  good  luck  —  it  is  good  luck, 
is  n't  it,  to  marry  a  good  man ;  and  a  man  you  — 
you  care  for;  and  a  rich  man,  too,  you  know!  I 
shall  be  the  great  lady  here.  Won't  the  Academy 
girls  over  to  Ramoth  be  surprised  !  Oh,  I  know 
you  think  I  'm  dretfle  silly,  runnin'  on  so !  I  know 
I  hadn't  orter —  " 

"  That 's  all  right,"  said  Susanne,  taking  the  pins 
out  of  her  mouth.   "  Now  you  can  go." 

"  But  can't  I  stay  and  sew  with  you?"  asked 
Rowena  wheedlingly,  her  pretty  head  on  one  side. 
"  I  'd  love  to !  " 


262  The  Elder's  People 

"  No.  I  should  n't  git  along  so  fast.  Here 's  your 
jacket.  Good-bye."  And  the  little  person  found  her- 
self outside  the  door,  without  knowing  exactly  how 
she  got  there. 

Susanne  flung  her  scissors  across  the  floor,  and  fell 
herself,  with  her  arms  outstretched  and  her  face  hid- 
den from  the  light  of  day.  She  could  not  have  en- 
dured it  another  moment.  Her  brain  was  burning; 
her  heart  was  a  lump  of  ice.  If  she  could  only  die ! 
Perhaps  an  hour  passed  before  she  lifted  her  head. 
Everything  in  the  familiar  room  seemed  strange. 
Something  had  happened;  some  shock  had  thrown 
her  off  her  balance.  Yes,  she  had  been  forsaken  for 
this  little  creature  who  did  not  know  when  to  speak 
and  when  to  be  silent,  who  wore  her  heart  on  her 
sleeve !  Oh,  to  be  sure,  the  gowns  —  well,  she  would 
make  them ;  she  would  make  them  so  frivolous,  so 
fit  for  a  butterfly,  that  her  husband  should  see  and 
understand  !  She  dragged  herself  up,  and  went  across 
the  narrow  entry-way  to  her  own  room,  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed,  wishing  she  were  never  to  leave 
it.  And  then  a  great  sigh  tore  itself  up  to  her  lips, 
and  she  fell  to  crying  bitterly,  and  in  the  midst  of 
sobs  and  tears  she  was  asleep. 

When  Susanne  awoke,  it  was  with  the  prosaic  and 
practical  assurance  that  she  was  wasting  time  shock- 
ingly. She  bathed  her  face  and  smoothed  her  hair, 
and  put  on  a  fresh  neck-ribbon ;  but  her  hands  trem- 
bled so  —  not  with  cold,  for  the  room  was  warmed 


A  Village  Dressmaker  263 

by  the  pipe  from  the  kitchen  below  —  as  she  replaced 
the  box,  that  she  knocked  the  cover  off  another,  the 
one  where  her  little  treasures  were  kept,  her  mother's 
bosom-pin  and  yellow  old  marriage-certificate,  cer- 
tain bits  of  lace  and  dried  flowers,  and  the  small 
photograph  of  Don  that  she  had  not  had  the  strength 
to  return.  There  he  looked  back  at  her  with  grave, 
unsmiling  eyes  that  made  her  heart  shake  as  she  gazed. 
She  went  to  the  old  armoire  and  opened  the  deep 
drawer,  and  hung  over  the  lovely  whiteness  lying 
there  in  the  dusk,  with  its  half-dressed  wreaths  of 
snowy  bloom  shining  under  the  veil.  So  white,  so 
still,  so  fair  —  it  was  her  dead  happiness  laid  out 
there.  How  peaceful,  how  beautiful !  Oh,  she  had 
said  the  best  was  not  too  good  for  Don's  wife  !  What 
matter  who  the  wife  might  be  ?  "  No,  no,  no,  Don !  " 
she  cried.  "I  will  do  my  best.  I  will,  I  will  do  my 
best!  "  And  she  went  back  to  the  other  room  and 
picked  up  her  scissors. 

She  would  do  the  organdie  first.  She  would  make 
the  fine  pink  tissue  all  ruflfles;  the  girl  should  look, 
as  she  had  said,  like  a  little  rose  in  it,  a  hundred- 
leafed  rose,  the  pretty  thing !  Small  marvel  that  Don 
had  dropped  a  gray  stalk  of  rosemary  for  such  a  flower 
as  that!  Small  marvel  that  he  loved  her.  Who 
would  n't  ?  As  she  began  to  snip  and  sew,  it  almost 
seemed  to  Susanne  then  that  she  loved  the  girl  her- 
self. It  was  not  her  fault  that  Don  had  chosen  one 
and  flung  another  away ;  it  was  her  good  fortune.  As 


264  The  Elder's  People 

for  Susanne  herself,  was  there  anything  in  the  world 
Don  wanted  that  she  would  not  give  him?  He 
wanted  this  pretty  dear  for  his  wife.  She  ought  to 
be  glad  —  she  was  glad !  —  that  he  could  have  her. 
She  should  go  to  him  as  his  wife  ought  to  go, 
dressed  as  if  the  wand  of  a  fairy  godmother  had 
touched  her ! 

Before  the  other  gowns  were  quite  finished,  Row- 
ena  brought  in  the  stuff  for  the  gown  in  which  she 
was  to  be  married.  It  was  a  dazzling  day  of  blue  sky, 
with  great  clefts  of  ultramarine  in  the  snow,  whose 
sheets  made  a  rosy  glow  in  the  blinded  eyes;  but 
suddenly  it  grew  gray  to  Susanne. 

"I  wanted  white  satin,"  said  Rowena.  "But 
mother  said  there  M  be  no  use  for  it  afterwards.  I 
like  a  bride  in  white  satin  —  don't  you  ?  All  shin- 
ing and  angel-like  in  her  veil.  I  could  have  had  it 
dyed,  too,  and  worn  it  a  lot.  But  mother  thinks  this 
nun's-veiling  's  good  enough  —  and  what  mother  says 
goes.  And  I  know  you  can  dress  it  up  with  lots  of 
little  white  satin  ribbons.  Somehow,  white  woolen 
stuff  does  look  dreadful  like  a  shroud.  My  goodness, 
you  don't  suppose  that's  ominous ?  I  'm  awful  super- 
stitious. If  anything  happened  to  me  it  would  break 
Don's  heart.  And,  oh,  I  want  to  live,  I  'm  so  happy !  " 
And  the  tears  overflowing  her  limpid  eyes  made 
them  now  like  stars  shining  in  the  dew  of  violets. 

But  the  nun's-veiling  lay  in  its  papers  a  good 
many  days  before  Susanne   opened  them.   "Why, 


A  Village  Dressmaker  265 

you  haven't  touched  it!"  exclaimed  Rowena  in 
dismay. 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  said  Susanne,  not 
looking  up. 

"  Why,  no,  there  is  n't.  There 's  hardly  any  time 
at  all.  I  thought  you  'd  have  it  ready  to  try  on.  I  've 
b'en  lookin'  forward  to  it.  I  'm  reel  disappointed,"  — 
rolling  the  head  of  her  hat-pin  in  her  mouth  as  she 
spoke. 

"  I  had  ter  finish  Mis'  Lawyer  Jones's  skirt.  She 's 
goin'  away  an'  could  n't  wait." 

"I'd  'a'  come  an'  helped  you.  You'd  only  had  to 
send.  Won't  you  begin  this  now?  " 

"  I  '11  see,"  said  Susanne.  "  To-morrer,  mebbe. 
I  '11  send  for  you  w'en  it 's  ready  to  try  on." 

But  days  passed ;  and  Susanne  had  not  sent  for 
Rowena.  She  said  to  herself  she  did  not  know  what 
possessed  her.  It  seemed  impossible  to  touch  the  stuff. 
How  could  she  make  the  gown  for  another  woman 
to  wear  when  marrying  Don !  The  alternations  of 
feeling,  of  determining  and  of  hesitating,  so  wore 
upon  her  nerves  that  she  went  to  bed  with  a  head- 
ache that  made  her  hands  useless  for  anything  but 
wringing. 

"  I  suppose  you  're  all  ready  for  me  ?  "  said  Row- 
ena, coming  in  eagerly,  a  tinge  of  anxiety  on  her 
joyousness. 

"  I  will  be  to-morrer,  shore,"  said  Susanne. 

"  Oh,  you  said  so  before !  " 


266  The  Elder's  People 

"I've  b'en  sick." 

"  Yes.  I  'm  reel  sorry.  You're  all  right  now  ?  I  'd 
'a'  come  an'  rubbed  your  head ;  I  'm  good  at  helpin' 
headaches.  But  the  time's  mighty  short,  Susanne, 
dear.  I  don't  want  to  have  to  put  off  my  weddin'," 
—  with  a  pout.  "  It 's  terrible  bad  luck.  An'  Mr. 
Davison  '11  feel  so  bad  !  " 

"  Oh,  well,  you  won't  have  to.  You  come  Tues- 
day." 

And  Rowena  came  Tuesday.  And  there  lay  the 
white  veiling  still  uncut. 

"  I  declare  I  could  cry !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  're 
treatin'  me  reel  mean !  I  'm  sure  you  've  had  it  long 
enough.  And  you  promised !  You  promised  !  "  And 
the  blue  eyes  shot  fire. 

"Look  here!  You  take  it  to  Mis'  Mclvor,  down 
to  Salt  Water,  —  she  '11  do  it." 

"  Oh,  she  can't  do  anything  like  you !  She  ain't 
got  a  speck  o'  style.  Besides,  they  've  got  scarlet  fever 
in  the  house.  And  there  ain't  any  one  else."  And 
she  looked  out  the  window  with  eyes  held  wide  open 
lest  the  tears  spilled.  "  I  've  gotter  go  over  to  Me- 
ridian to  see  Aunt  Steams  this  week,  too,  —  she  's 
goin'  to  give  me  a  whole  set  of  French  chiny.  And 
you  see  that  leaves  no  time  at  all  for  fittin'  an'  alter- 
in'.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  cry  an'  make  my  eyes  all 
red,  —  you  did  n't  useter  treat  me  this  way,  Susanne. 
I  do  feel  so  worried !  " 

"  You  need  n't  worry.  Go  over  to  Meridian.  I 


A  Village  Dressmaker  267 

can  make  it  fit  me.  And  if  it  fits  me,  it  will 
you." 

"You  truly  will  have  it  ready,  Susanne?  Cross 
your  heart  ?  Hope  you  may  die  ?  " 

"  Hope  I  may  die,"  said  Susanne  solemnly.  And 
she  did  hope  so. 

Rowena  had  returned  from  Meridian ;  and  she  ran 
in  like  a  thing  of  sun  and  summer.  It  was  nipping 
weather  outside,  with  raw  March  winds ;  but  as  she 
saw  her,  Susanne  thought  of  a  breeze  rioting  among 
roses.  She  made  a  quick  movement  to  throw  some- 
thing over  the  table,  where  the  veiling  lay,  scattered 
in  loose  blocks,  not  even  pinned  together. 

"  I  thought  you  'd  keep  your  word !  "  cried 
Rowena  accusingly. 

"  I  had  Mis'  Cap'n  Symon's  moumin',"  said  Su- 
sanne sullenly.   "And  everythin'  hes  ter  give  way 


ter  moumin'." 


"  Oh,  what  am  I  goin'  to  do  !  " 

"  Wear  your  organdie." 

"  And  look  that  way,  when  a  bride  should  look 
all  white  an'  sweet  an'  solemn !  " 

"  You  could  n't  look  solemn,"  biting  off  her 
thread. 

"  I  '11  have  to  stand  up  in  that  gray  travelin' 
dress,"  cried  Rowena  with  a  sob.  "And  there'll  be 
no  white  procession  a-sweepin'  in.  And  I  can't  wear 
a  veil.  An'  no  goin'  upstairs  to  change  my  dress! 
And  it 's  your  fault.  Susanne,  I  '11   never  forgive 


268  The  Elder's  People 

you  till  the  longest  day  I  live !  You  've  just  spoiled 
my  weddin' !  And  I  don't  believe  Don  '11  forgive 
you,  either,  when  I  tell  him !  He  asked  me  why  I 
came  to  you  to  have  my  dresses  made,  anyway." 

Susanne  did  not  look  at  her.  "  I  can't  help  it  if 
folks  die,"  she  said.  "Mournin 's  mourn  in'.  Gownds 
fer  funerals  are  jest  as  needfle  as  gownds  fer 
weddin's." 

"  It 's  awful  for  you  to  talk  so !  It  throws  a  gloom 
over  everythin'.  Mournin'  an'  funerals  !  An'  me  so 
superstitious.  And  I  never  heard  of  disappointin'  a 
bride  of  her  weddin'  gownd.  I  would  n't  'a'  done  it 
if  I  'd  had  to  set  up  nights.  It  '11  hurt  your  business 
a  lot.  You  don't  know  how  you  've  disappointed  me. 
You  can't  have  a  speck  o'  feelin'.  You  don't  know 
how  bad  I  feel !  "  And  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  the 
only  dry  spot  left  on  her  poor  scrap  of  a  handker- 
chief, and  went  out  like  a  bird  drooping  its  feathers. 
And  Susanne  stood  looking  over  the  russet  fields  that 
the  winter  had  laid  waste  and  spring  was  repairing 
with  a  sort  of  rosy  breath  in  reddening  rose-stems 
and  greening  willows,  and  wondered  what  ailed  her 
that  she  seemed  to  have  no  will,  no  wish,  —  to  be 
beside  herself.  She  moved  from  day  to  night  in  a 
cloud,  and  lay  from  night  to  day  in  a  blank  of  con- 
sciousness. Only  when  she  was  with  the  old  aunts 
was  she  able  to  play  the  part  that  let  them  think  her 
unconcerned. 

One  day,  in  passing,  it  chanced  that  she  looked 


A  Village  Dressmaker  269 

in  the  glass.  She  had  looked  without  seeing,  be- 
fore. Was  it  herself  ?  Was  it  an  apparition  ?  Was 
it  only  two  great  eyes  gazing  out  of  a  cloud  ?  "  It 
is  shameless!"  she  said.  "To  have  come  to  that 
for  the  sake  of  a  man  who  —  who  has  forgot  I  am 
alive !  Sel5sh  wretch,  I  am !  I  '11  make  that  gown 
if  it  kills  me !  '*  But  it  was  too  late. 

"  The  waters,  the  waters  of  Meribah !  "  sighed 
the  old  chorus.  "  Oh,  we  have  all  drunk  of  them  !  " 

"They've  got  lights  in  'most  every  winder  down 
ter  the  May  hews',"  said  Miss  Ann,  one  night.  "  It's 
tew  bad  you  could  n't  git  her  gownd  fixed,  Susanne. 
As  long  as  you  set  out." 

"  I  wisht  Cap'n  Symon  could  hev  made  out  ter 
live  a  week  longer,"  said  Miss  Celia.  "  But 's  I  told 
Mis'  Mayhew,  a  widder's  gotter  hev  her  moumin' 
jest's  much's  a  bride.  I  was  down  ter  help  set  out 
the  supper  table.  I  thought  'twould  show  there 
war  n't  no  feelin'.  Rony  'd  b'en  Qrym\  Her  mother 
said  ef  it  hed  b'en  daytime  she  would  n't  'a'  minded 
so  much;  but  ter  be  merried  in  a  travelin'  gownd 
in  the  night-time  did  look  so  poverty-struck.  They 
're  goin's  fur  as  Buffalo." 

"  Wal,  we  'd  better  be  gittin'  on  our  thin's,  sis- 
ter," said  the  other.  "  I  guess  I  '11  wear  the  van- 
dykes  'ith  the  damin'  needle  stitch.  You  goin'  ter 
wear  your  cap  'ith  purple  ribbins  ?  " 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Miss  Ann,  rather  shortly. 


270  The  Elder's  People  ^ 

"  Every  old  woman  in  the  parish  wears  purple.  I  put 
pink  ones  on  a-purpose.  You  ain't  comin',  Susanne? 
P'raps  't  would  look  better  ef  you  did.  I  do'  know, 
though.  I  do'  know 's  I  would  ef  I  was  you." 

Susanne  went  upstairs,  and  opened  her  window 
on  the  soft  night  of  early  spring.  "  I  '11  jest  stifle !  " 
she  said.  The  stars,  the  stars  of  Don's  wedding 
night,  hung  mistily  silver  in  the  purple  sky.  The 
smell  of  the  upturned  furrows  lay  fresh  on  the 
damp  air.  The  lights  were  blazing  in  the  Mayhew 
house,  and  in  the  old  Davison  house  on  the  knoll, 
—  Don's  wedding  lights  !  Suddenly  she  turned,  her 
heart  beating  in  her  finger-tips,  her  eyes  shining  in 
the  dark.  This  was  what  had  possessed  her !  This 
was  what  she  had  been  waiting  for!  This  —  far 
back  in  her  unread,  unspoken  intention  —  was  what 
had  hindered  her !  She  must  have  meant  to  do  it  all 
the  time,  but  had  not  said  so  to  herself!  Whether 
that  was  true  or  not,  she  ran  now  to  the  armoire 
and  its  deep  drawer;  she  lifted  over  her  level  arms 
the  long,  lovely  muslins  and  the  veil,  adjusting 
them  quickly  and  lightly;  she  ran,  as  if  evil  pow- 
ers were  after  her  to  interfere,  down  the  stairs, 
outdoors,  no  matter  about  the  latch,  into  the  dark, 
and  along  the  road  to  the  May  hews',  swift  and 
soundless  and  white  as  a  ghost  in  the  night,  in  at 
the  back  door,  and  up  to  Rowena's  room,  some  one 
telling  her  the  way. 

"Make  haste!"   she   exclaimed  breathlessly  to 


A  Village  Dressmaker  271 

Rowena.  "  It 's  here  !  Lemme  put  it  on  you.  An- 
other white  skirt.  There.  There.  Gimme  a  pin. 
No,  a  big  one.  There.  I  see.  Yes.  It's  jest  right. 
Guess  it  can  be  ketched  over  there,  though.  That 's 
good.  A  trifle  long  —  not  much,  though,  ef  you  stan' 
straight.  Look  in  the  glass !  Now.  I  'U  fix  the  veil. 
I  '11  shower  it  all  round  you.  There !  You  look  like 
a  sperrit.  You  look  the  way  you  wantter  look  — 
all  white  an'  sweet  an'  solum !  " 

"Oh,  Susanne!"  cried  Rowena,  shaking  with 
excitement  and  joy.  "You've  taken  my  breath 
away !  And  you  was  meanin'  this  all  the  time !  " 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Susanne.  "And  I  'm  real  glad 
you  're  goin'  to  make  Don  happy.  Oh,  Rony,  you 
'11  try  an'  make  him  happy  ?  And  I  hope  you  '11  be 
happv,  too.  I  'm  givin'  you  the  fust  kiss  in  your 
weddin'  gownd.  Gownd  an'  kiss  are  my  present !  " 
And  then  Susanne  ran  away  as  she  had  come,  catch- 
ing sight  through  an  open  door  of  the  start  the  old 
aunts  gave  as  they  sav/  her. 

Perhaps,  at  the  vision  of  his  bride  wrapped  about 
in  all  that  vaporous  w^hiteness,  Don  Davison  remem- 
bered the  vision  of  Susanne  wuth  the  snowy  films 
floating  about  her.  But  it  is  to  be  doubted.  Only 
Miss  Ann  and  Miss  Celia  looked  at  each  other  with 
great  eyes.  "  You  was  mistook,  Cely,"  said  Miss 
Ann,  as  they  walked  home  together  in  the  starlight. 
"  Susanne 's  goin'  ter  grow  old  like  us.  But  it's 
jest 's  you  say  about  happiness,  —  w'en  your  own 's 


272  The  Elder's  People 

dead  an'  gone  you  must  git  your  sheer  out  'n  the 
happiness  of  others." 

"  Susanne  looked  reel  happy,  reel  bright  an' 
happy,  w'en  I  ketched  sight  of  her  comin'  down- 
stairs there,  Ann." 

"  Jes'  so." 

"Wal!  I  think  a  woman 'd  orter  be  translated 
thet  's  happy  givin'  another  woman  her  weddin' 
gownd ! " 

"  Susanne  is  translated." 

"  Ann,  a  cross  is  a  cross  your  life  long." 

*'  Cely,"  said  her  sister,  "  you  've  heem  Elder 
Perry  say  thet  there  ain't  no  cross  w'en  there  ain't 
no  self  to  suffer  under  it !  " 


MISS  MAHALA'S  WILL 


XII 

Miss  Mahala's  Will 

IT  had  never  occurred  to  the  Settlement  that  any- 
thing could  happen  to  Miss  Mahala.  She  had 
always  been  there ;  and  naturally  she  always  would 
be  there,  like  the  farm  lands,  and  the  woods. 

It  was  somewhat  as  if  the  earth  had  moved  from 
its  center  then  when  a  rumor  went  about  that  Miss 
Mahala  had  been  making  her  will,  —  a  rumor  due 
to  the  ears  of  Sally  Moss,  which  were  wont  to  catch 
at  a  half-truth ;  and  a  half-truth,  as  Miss  Mahala 
said  in  forcible  Doric,  is  often  a  lie. 

What  in  the  world,  asked  one  and  another,  was  she 
making  a  will  about  ?  Sally  Moss  gladly  told  them ; 
she  was  making  her  will  to  arrange  for  a  provision 
for  her  cat.  And  then  the  peaceful  Settlement  was  in 
an  uproar. 

"  You  see,"  Miss  Mahala  said  to  the  Elder,  whom 
she  had  asked  to  prepare  the  paper  for  her,  "life's 
like  yisterday,  here  to-day  an'  gone  tomorrer.  An' 
ef  I  sink  in  a  bog-hole  w'en  I  'm  out  geth'rin '  my 
yarbs,  or  ef  I  don't  wake  up  some  momin',  there 's 
nobody  but  Pharaoh  to  care  —  " 

"  Why,  Miss  Mahala  !  " 

*'  Oh,  you  'd  hev  regrets,  mebbe ;  but  't  would 
break  Pharaoh's  heart.  So  I  '11  pervide  fer  Pharaoh 


276  The  Elder's  People 

w'ile  I  can."  And  she  complacently  regarded  her  cat 
sleek  and  shining  in  the  red  sunbeam  that  fell  through 
the  boursaulte  rose  that  climbed  the  window. 
"  Miss  Mahala  !  Pharaoh  !  A  cat !  " 
"  Pharaoh  is  a  person,  Elder  Perry,"  said  Miss 
Mahala  solemnly.  "Wen  I  come  home  at  night 
who  is  there  to  welcome  me  but  Pharaoh,  with 
his  little  glad  cry  ?  Wen  I  wake  up  momin's,  whose 
great  eyes  open  an'  shet  'ith  happiness  but  Pharaoh"'s? 
Who  sets  'ith  me  all  day  long  in  stormy  weather, 
and  every  onct  in  a  w'ile  looks  in  my  eyes,  much  as 
to  say,  '  Don't  be  lonesome,  I'm  here' t  Who,  w'en 
he 's  b'en  prowlin'  in  the  woods,  brings  home  per- 
visions  fer  the  fam'bly  'ith  a  field-mouse  'twixt  his 
teeth,  an'  lays  it  down  afore  me,"  twisting  her  finger 
through  a  thin  gray  curl  in  which  still  were  threads 
of  black.  "  Elder,  who,  w'en  I  've  b'en  kneelin'  beside 
my  bed,  an'  mebbe  cry  in',  gits  up  to  t'  other  side  an' 
brushes  the  tears  from  my  eyes  ?  " 
"  Switchin'  his  tail  about,  I  s'pose." 
"  No,  Elder  Perrj^  Wen  he  knows  I  'm  distressed. 
There  's  folks  likes  me ;  an'  folks  that  puts  up  'ith 
me ;  but  Pharaoh,  he  loves  me.  An'  I  'm  goin'  ter 
fix  thin's  so 't  Pharaoh  shell  alius  hev  his  kind  word, 
an'  his  bit  o'  meat,  his  cream,  an'  squash  an'  spar- 
rergrass,  an'  catnip,  an'  his  cushing.  And  I  '11  leave 
suthin'  ter  Posy  fer  seein'  to  him.  He 's  old  now,  my 
poor  Pharaoh.  We  've  growed  old  tergether.  I  'U 
fix  't  so  't  he  shan't  be  hurried  out  o'  life  fer  the  sake 


Miss  Mahala's  Will  277 

o'  the  money,  by  leavin'  that  bit  o'  money  w'en 
he  's  done  'ith  't,  ter  help  pay  the  naytional  debt.  An' 
that  makes  Pharaoh  safe." 

"  Why  not  leave  it  to  the  parish  ultimately,  for 
the  needs  of  the  meeting-house.  Miss  Mahala?  " 

"  The  perrish  ?  The  meetin'-us  ?  Wile  Deacon 
Harding  an'  Cy  Thomas  are  a-managin'  there  poor 
Pharaoh's  life  would  n't  be  wuth  a  continental  copper. 
No,  Elder,  I  shell  make  perv'ision  fer  Pharaoh  the 
fust  words  o'  my  last  will  and  testj^ment.  I,  Ma- 
haly,  bein'  o'  soun'  mind,  ef  not  so  soun'  body,  do 
hereby  will  and  devise  —  I  don't  exactly  know  the 
proper  quantity  o'  words  —  you  fix  it  up  fer  me, 
Elder." 

"  But  a  little  chloroform  —  " 

"  That 's  jest  it !  Them  vivisectarians  is  alius 
seekin'  their  prey.  They  may  be  all  right  fer  your 
cat,  but  they  ain't  for  mine.  Wen  I  think  o'  Pharaoh's 
great  suiferin'  eyes  —  chlorj^form  or  no  chlor}'form 
—  w'y  I  'd  rise  in  my  grave  !  " 

"  Well,  well.  And  what  next  ?  " 

"  Suthin'  fer  you  an'  Mis'  Perr}^" 

"That  won't  do,  Miss  Mahala.  No,  no!  " 

"  It 's  gotta  du!" 

"  No,  I  assure  you,  my  kind  friend,  really  I  can't 
draw  up  any  paper  in  w^hich  I —  " 

"  Now,  Elder  Perry,  have  some  common  sense ! 
You  've  got  lots  of  oncommon.  You  ain't  a  right  —  " 

"  I   will   do  no  such  questionable  thing !  "  And 


278  The  Elder* s  People 

the  Elder  leaned  back  with  his  arms  stoutly  folded 
across  his  worn  waistcoat,  and  the  sky  shining  blue 
in  his  eyes. 

"  It 's  a  pity,"  said  Miss  Mahala,  rising  to  find 
her  knitting,"  ef  I  can't  leave  my  old  Bible  an'  w'at  's 
in  it  to  them  I  care  for !  I  suppose  you  'd  take  that  ?  " 
with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"  I  know  very  well  what  is  in  it,"  said  the  Elder. 
"A  dollar  bill  between  every  other  leaf." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  Sally  Moss." 

"  How  'd  she  know !  Wen  Sally  Moss  dries  up 
an'  blows  away,  folks  can  think  'thout  bein'  waylaid. 
But  that  ain't  here  nor  there.  You  '11  be  executioner, 
it's  all  tied  up  'ith  stout  string, — an'  you'lljes' 
take  it  an'  nobody  '11  know." 

"  I  '11  know.  An'  Miss  Mahala,  it  is  n't  safe  to 
keep  that  book  in  the  house." 

"  Think  a  thief  'd  be  lookin'  fer  a  Bible  ?  But  any 
ways,  I  ain't  goin'  ter  give  a  copper  to  the  heathen, 
and  ef  that  makes  a  scandal  I  '11  be  a  considerable  dis- 
tance off  where  scandal  won't  trouble  me.  But  let 's  go 
on.  Now  there 's  my  money  that 's  a-growin'  down  in 
the  Bank  ter  Salt  Water."  Miss  Mahala  paused. 
"  Elder,"  she  began  again  presently,  and  then  she 
was  silent  as  if  unwilling  or  unable  to  say  more. 

"  I  do'  know,"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  long  sigh.  "  I 
do'  know.  There 's  some  thin's  I  ain't  never  spoke  of. 
But  I  s'pose  you  gotter  know.  Ef  I  can  git  ter  speakin' 


Miss  Mahala's  Will  279 

plain,  you  '11  unnerstan'  an'  help.  It 's  betwixt  you 
an'  me,  Elder.  'T  ain't  much  use  t'  ask  merried  folks 
not  to  tell  thin's  to  each  other.  So  I  misdoubt  ef 
't  ain't  a  good  plan  fer  ministers  ter  stay  single.  Not,'* 
she  added  quickly,  "that  I  'd  hev  you  an'  Mis'  Perry 
any  other  ways  'n  w'at  ye  be." 

Miss  Mahala  was  quiet  then  so  long,  looking  into 
the  little  garden  where  her  transplanted  herbs  were 
shedding  their  pungency  after  a  passing  shower,  that 
the  Elder  said,  "Well?" 

"'Tain't  easy,"  she  answered.  "'T ain't  flatterin'. 
But  fact  is  w'en  I  was  young  I  teached  schule  here. 
Them  that  give  me  the  job  didn't  know  as  much  as 
me.  An'  ef  I  don't  make  my  parts  o'  speech  come 
together  right  I  teached  the  rules  an'  bed  the  boys 
and  gels  du  it.  But  there 's  a  sight  o'  lamin'  that 
ain't  in  books.  They  knowed  as  well  as  me  that  w'en 
the  cuckoo  calls  it  means  rain.  But  they  did  n't  know 
the  fac's  about  Bonaparty,  nor  how  to  calkilate  in- 
teres',  and  I  did.  I  bed  the  book  and  I  bed  the  key. 
Wal,  amongst  the  boys  was  one  called  Jerry  Dow. 
Them  boys,  an'  the  gels  tew,  useter  pick  upon  Jerry. 
He  took  it  patient ;  but  it  cut  deep.  An  so  I  bed 
ter  keep  the  bigger  fellers  off.  They  was  all  older 
'n  me.  There  was  one  o'  them  big  fellers  meanin' 
ter  merry  me  w'en  schule  'd  be  ov^er ;  and  I  was 
half  willin'.  I  was  young,  ye  see,  an'  sort  o'  good 
lookin'.  Ye  'd  never  know  these  eyes  was  mine  ef 
ye  'd  seen  'em  then.  Yes,  they  've  shed  tears  enough 


280  The  Elder's  People 

ter  wash  the  color  out'n  'em.  See  w'at  a  old  simple- 
ton I  be!  "  she  said,  with  something  like  a  tear  in 
her  eyes  now.  "  Not  that  it  ain't  all  dead  an'  gone 
years  back ;  but  I  'm  sorry  fer  the  young  thin'  I  was. 
However  !  As  I  was  say  in',  Jerry,  he  took  to  me, 
grateful  like,  an'  he'd  bring  me  pink  swamp-honey- 
suckle in  its  season,  an'  strawberries  braided  on  straws, 
an'  bimeby  pond-lilies.  I  mind  one  Sabbath,  afore 
we  hed  the  big  bell  in  the  meetin'-'us,  every  one 
loiterin'  roun'  the  grave-yard  was  called  by  a  hand- 
bell, an'  Jerry  done  it,  '  W'y  don't  ye  leave  off? ' 
some  one  ses.  *  Elder 's  come.'  An'  Jerry  ses,  '  I 
don't  keer  ef  he  has.  Miss  Mahala  ain't.'  An'  the 
big  boys,  they  called  him  Mahaly's  pet,  an'  Miss 
Nancy,  an'  Dolly  Dow.  An',  of  course,  I  hed  ter 
take  his  side  —  I  never  could  bear  to  see  a  worm 
trod  on.  An'  bimeby  I  see  he  warn't  so  much  of  a 
worm  as  some.  He  was  alius  dreamin'  —  one  o* 
them  that  plants  dates  an'  expec's  palm-leaf  fans  ter 
come  up,  an'  gits  rich  on  the  idee  of  a  hot  spell  and 
a  market  for  the  fans.  But  you  'd  orter  seen  him 
tend  out  on  his  mother.  She  was  a  rag-doll  sort  o' 
critter ;  but  my  heart,  she  hed  vim.  She  'd  rout  him  up 
in  the  dead  dark  o'  the  night  to  recite  Myra  Means's 
piece  of  po'try  till  she  got  ter  sleep.  An'  he  liked  ter 
du  it.  He  was  kind  all  thru,  and  single-minded,  ye 
see.  Wal,  one  time,  long  about  last  term,  the  snow 
was  a-flyin',  an'  the  big  boys  was  snow-ballin'  and 
enj'yin'  havin'  the  gels  see  how  smart  they  was. 


'Miss  Mahald's  Will  281 

Didn't  ye  ever  see  a  woodcock  show  off  to  his  hen  ? 
It 's  all  human  natur*.  I  was  jes'  callin'  of  'em  in 
w'en  Jerry  come  runnin'  down.  *  Wat  ye  late  for, 
Sissy? '  they  called.  'Course  he  would  n't  tell  'em  he  'd 
stayed  ter  wash  up  his  mother's  floor  for  her.  An' 
they  begun  peltin'  him  'ith  their  snow-balls.  'Take 
that,  bub ! '  one  sings  out.  '  An'  that,  beauty  !  '  an- 
other calls.  An'  the  balls  was  flyin'  like  feathers. 
'  Here 's  for  you,  goo-goo ! '  one  on  'em  shouted.  *  W'y 
don't  ye  fire  back  ?  Ain't  yer  fingers  light  enough  ? ' 
Now  Mis'  Dow  she  had  a  nevew  come  to  her  w'en 
he  was  a  baby,  before  ever  Jerr)^  was  bom ;  an'  she 
set  a  sight  by  him,  more  'n  she  did  by  Jerry  w'n  he 
come.  An'  w'ile  Jerry  was  a-gro\vin'  up  he  jes' wor- 
shiped Framey,  an'  worshiped  his  mother,  too.  Wat 
she  said,  went.  An'  w'en,  as  time  passed,  Framey 
got  some  money  that  did  n't  belong  to  him,  an' 
throwed  the  blame  on  Jerr}',  Jerr}^  never  budged,  but 
took  the  blame,  an'  his  mother  thinks  to  this  day  he 
done  it.  He  'd  'a^  gone  thru  fire  for  her,  an'  I  guess 
he  did.  Framey  's  a-gittin'  his  come-uppance  now  — 
I  hope.  So  ye  see  w'at  that  cry  about  light  fingers 
meant  to  Jerry.  An'  as  he  run  he  stumbled  an'  fell, 
an'  then  he  cowered  right  down  an'  the  snow-balls 
was  a  cloud  round  him.  An'  that  was  more  'n  I 
could  Stan'.  I  run  out,  jest  's  I  was,  an'  I  ses,  '  You 
stop  that,  Cy  Thomas  !  Ain't  ye  'shamed  ! '  For  it 
was  Cy  Thomas  bed  sung  out  about  the  light  fingers. 
*  Jerry  Dow  ain't  no  more  light-fingered  'n  you  be ! ' 


282  The  Elder's  People 

I  ses.  '  I  know  all  about  it ! '  ses  I.  'An'  Cy Thomas, 
you  go  right  to  the  black-board  an'  work  out  the 
cube-root  o'  that  ball  o'  butter !  '  ses  I.  '  Wal,'  ses 
Cy.  An'  that  was  the  end  on't  'twixt  Cy  an'  me. 
Arter  a  time  he  merried  a  gel  from  Salt  Water ;  folks 
said  she  knowed  French,  but  she  did  n't  know  a  rule 
o'  grammar.  I  ain't  heard  o'  much  French  there,  but 
she  teached  him  to  walk  Spanish.  Them  little  thin's 
du.  He  takes  it  out  on  the  neighbors,  now.  But  I 
had  n't  helped  Jerry  none,  sidin'  'ith  him  so.  The 
way  them  fellers  an'  gigglin'  gels  went  fer  him  made 
my  blood  run  cold.  .An'  Jerry  never  struck  back. 
Felt  'twas  his  part  and  lot.   An'  wunst,  w'en  Cy 
Thomas  got  caught  in  the  swamp  an'  was  a-roarin' 
fer  help,  Jerry  waded  out  with  boards  an'  fetched 
him  safe.  I  'm  boun'  ter  say  Cy  left  off  a-persecutin'. 
But  't  was  late  in  the  day  when  Jerry  'd'  lef '  schule. 
O'  course  by  this  time  I  was  makin'  Jerry's  cause 
my  cause.  They  got  a  man  to  take  the  place  nex' 
year  an  I  took  'to  dodderin'  round  in  the  woods  an' 
ways  about   my  yarbs;  an'  often  as  not  he  was  with 
me.  Poor  Jerry !  An'  the  long  an'  the  short  of  it  is  I 
promised  Jerry  I  'd  be  wife  to  him  —  some  day.  I 
kind  o'  felt  as  if  he  needed  my  protection  and  I  needed 
his  patience,  an'  I  see  suthin'  dretfle  high  an'  sweet 
in  him  by  rights  —  the  way  he  said  his  prayers,  the 
way  he  tended  out  on  that  mother  o'  his'n,  the  way 
he  sent  his  thoughts  up  nights  w'en  we  was  a-settin' 
on  the  door-step,  makin'  out  that  Heaven  was  some- 


Miss  Mahald's  Will  283 

wheers  in  where  the  Milky  Way  divides,  the  dark 
way  windin'  into  it,  the  unbelievable  glory  w'en 
ye  git  there.  Ever  think  on't.  Elder  ?  We  did  n't  say 
nothin'  erbout  our  arrangements,  fer  I  was  n't  goin'  ter 
live  on  the  hill  'ith  Mis'  Dow,  an'  he  wam't  goin' 
ter  leave  his  mother,  an'  so  we  was  jest  a-hangin'  by 
the  gills  w'en  Jerry  —  poor  Jerry  —  he  see  Eunice. 
He'd  seed  Eunice  every  day  o'  his  life  fer  years;  but 
all  to  oncet  it  seemed  as  ef  he  'd  never  seed  her  afore. 
She  ris  up  an'  blotted  out  the  sun  an'  moon  an'  seven 
stars  an  me.  I  do'  know  how  she  done  it.  He  was  open. 
He  telled  me  he  was  sorry  he  'd  ever  kissed  me.  I 
was  n't.  You  would  n't  think  it,  ter  see  him  a-shufflin' 
roun'  now,  the  most  onlikelies'  thin'  in  the  Settlement 
—  but  I'd  come  ter  set  my  eyes  by  him  then.  Wal, 
it  \  over  an'  done  with.  But  they  was  lonely  evenin's 
on  the  door-step.  I  didn't  send  any  thoughts  heav- 
enwards; there  warn't  no  heaven  for  me.  They 
was  lonely  nights,  'ith  the  rustle  o'  leaves  like  the 
rushin'  o'  rain,  so  dark  ye  felt  it  never  would  be  light. 
Didn't  seem  wuth  w'ile  ter  live;  an'  w'en  I  slep' 
I  wisht  I  'd  never  wake.  Did  n't  seem  as  ef  I  could 
bear  it.  Soon  's  I  could  I  went  to  visit  'ith  my  uncle, 
down  ter  Salt  Water ;  an'  the  new  sights  an'  soun's 
sort  o'  changed  my  poles.  W'en  I  come  back  ye  would 
n't  'a'  guessed  anythin'  'd  happened.  But  it  made  me 
bitter." 

"  Nothing  could  do  that,  Miss  Mahala." 
Think  so?  Sweetes'  apples  makes  the  sharpes' 


(( 


284  The  Elder's  People 

vinegar.  Wal,  by  that  time  little  Eunice  was  born 

—  sweet  child  —  an'  old  Mis'  Dow  was  dead.  And 
Eunice  herself  was  as  like  Mis'  Dow  as  two  peas  in 
a  pod.  Ef  Jerry  sensed  that,  he  never  put  two  an' 
two  tergether.  One  and  one  was  enough  fer  him.  An' 
he  was  a-putterin'  about,  graftin'  old  damask  roses 
on  wild  plum-bushes,  an'  a-tryin'  ter  git  blue  ones 

—  and  it  '11  be  a  blue  moon  fust  —  and  a-makin' 
asmy  medicines  out 'n  mother  mulleins,  and  a-findin' 
new  ways  ter  du  square  root.  An'  his  house  looks 
like  rideout ;  an'  sometimes  dinner  's  ready  an'  some- 
times 't  ain't ;  an'  sometimes  there  ain't  any,  anyways. 
She  's  sickly.  But  he 's  happy.  He  ain't  the  fust 
man  ter  warm  his  feet  in  the  moonshine."  And  Miss 
Mahala  polished  her  knitting  needle  in  her  hair  till 
she  forgot  what  she  was  doing.  "  Now  ef  I  leave 
this  money  outright  to  Jerry,"  she  began  again. 

"  To  Jerry  !  " 

"  Yes,  to  Jerry.  Then  he  's  jest  as  like  as  not  to 
kindle  the  fire  'ith  a  handful  o'  bank  bills,  or  make 
a  spill  ter  light  the  lamp  'ith  one  o'  them,  or  be  a- 
shreddin'  of  'em  up  ter  find  the  secret  o'  the  sort  o' 
paper,  or  lose  it  all  in  his  wool-geth'rin',  or  suthin' ! 
His  dreams  don't  fit  into  the  care  o'  money.  An'  so 
ef  I  leave  it  ter  you  —  besides  w'at  's  youm,  ye 
know" — with  a  twinkle — "you  can  dole  it  out 
ter  him  an'  he  not  dream  where  it  comes  from. 
Only  I  'm  boun'  the  Settlement  shan't  know, 
eyther." 


Miss  Mahald's  Will  285 

"  Miss  Mahala,"  began  the  Elder,  "  I  understand 
your  feeling  —  " 

"  It 's  more  'n  I  du,"  said  Miss  Mahala  grimly.  "  I 
don^t  care  one  soumarkee  for  Jerr)^  Dow.  But  some- 
how I  want  him  to  be  comPble,  an'  his  folks  arter 
him.  Little  Eunice  was  a  dear.  She  come  ter  see  me 
often.  I  hed  sweet-flag  fer  her,  an'  checkerberries,  an* 
black  birch  stems  'ith  spicy  bark ;  an'  she  useter  like 
ter  see  the  birds  perch  on  my  han'.  But  Eunice  put  a 
stop  to  her  comin'." 

Miss  Mahala  was  silent  now,  gazing  wistfully  at 
nothing.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  tell  the  Elder  of 
many  a  silver  dollar  Jerry  Dow  had  found  in  his 
furrow,  and  had  taken  as  part  of  a  Kidd  treasure  and 
set  himself  to  digging  for  others,  sometimes  then  find- 
ing a  couple  of  gold  pieces,  which  occasioned  work 
all  over  the  place,  greatly  to  the  crop's  beneiit. 

The  Elder  put  up  his  ink-horn,  and  looked  through 
the  open  door  where  Pharaoh  sat,  demure  as  if  he 
didn't  know  a  will  was  being  drawn  in  his  favor 
while  he  blinked  in  the  sun.  "  But  when  Jerry  has 
followed  you  ?  "  said  the  Elder. 

"  Follered  me  ?  Oh !  There  's  his  darter,  Eunie, 
that 's  merried  ter  Ruel.  All  I  got  would  'a'  ben 
Jerry's,  an'  't  wan't  me  that  went  back  on  the  unner- 
stan'in'.   And  so  that  's  the  nateral  way." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Elder,  rising  and  going 
to  the  door,  "  except  the  provision  for  the  cat." 

^'  You  don't  like  cats,  Elder.  Some  don't.  You 


286  The  Elder's  People 

ain't  ever  experienced  how  companionable  a  cat  can  be. 
Seems  ter  me  p'r'aps  they  be  some  superior  to  human 
bein's,  'cordin'  to.  They  know  a  lot  they  don't  tell." 

"  But  it  is  unusual,"  said  the  Elder,  "  to  mention 
a  cat  in  so  serious  a  document  — 

"  Pharaoh  's  unushul,"  said  Miss  Mahala,  follow- 
ing him.  "  An'  he  's  goin'  ter  be  pervided  for  the 
way  unushul  folks  gener'ly  be." 

The  Elder  was  gazing  into  the  depth  of  the  green- 
wood that  for  a  life-time  had  swung  its  shadows 
round  Miss  Mahala' s  house,  and  thinking  of  her 
lonesome  years. 

"  You  tryin'  ter  make  that  Jerry  an'  this  Jerry  fit 
tergether,"  she  said.  "  Wal,  ye  can't  an'  I  can't 
eyther.  But  there  't  is." 

On  the  edge  of  the  wood  a  slight  figure  was  flitting 
along,  like  a  leaf  blown  on  a  wind.  "  Enough  ter 
Make  ye  believe  in  witches,  that  little  woods  crit- 
ter," said  Miss  Mahala.  "  Sally  Moss.  She'sb'en 
unner  the  winder,  I  calkerlate.  Not  jest  a-puppus 
ter  listen  —  come  ter  borry.  Heered  me,  a-praisin' 
Pharaoh,  I  guess,  enough  ter  see  her  travel  in'  'ith 
talk.  Takes  all  sorts  ter  make  a  world." 

"I  never!"  exclaimed  Kitty  McGregor,  when 
Sally  had  recovered  coherence.  "  A  cat !  W'y  !  It 's 
blaspheemous.  An'  the  meetin'-'us  'ith  no  carpet !  " 
And  Kitty  hung  up  her  broom  so  angrily  that  she 
broke  the  string.  "  A  fort'n  to  a  cat !  " 


3Iiss  Mahala's  Will  287 

"  I  did  n't  say  't  was  so  much  as  that,"  said  Sally 
Moss.  "  A  pervision.  I  did  n't  hear  the  hull  on 't  — 
Elder  sort  o'  sheerin'  off.  I  was  goin'  ter  borry  some 
pack-thread  fer  my  mats —  p'r'aps  you've  got  some, 
—  but  I  considered  I  'd  better  come  away  afore 
Mahaly  ketched  me  an'  made  me  swear  ter  say  nothin' 
ter  block  the  wheels  o'  progress." 

"  I  '11  block  'em  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Kitty  McGregor. 
*'  I  '11  put  a  spoke  in  them  wheels !  Don't  that  child 
play  lovely  on  grandsir's  fiddle  ?  " 

Miss  Mahala,  when  she  went  to  the  door  that  night, 
did  not  see  a  struggling  furry  creature  with  eyes  like 
live  coals,  in  the  arms  of  a  shadow  that  made  off 
through  the  forest.  ''And  I  a-hatin'  cats  so  !  "  said 
Kitty  McGregor  as  she  ran,  muffling  her  prey  in  her 
shawl. 

"  Pharaoh  !  "  called  Mrs.  Mahala.  "  Pharaoh  — 
raoh  —  oh,  oh !  "  But  unless  a  far  and  feeble  cry 
across  the  smothering  woods  was  a  reply,  there  came 
no  sign.  "  Kitty,  kitty,  kitty  !  "  she  called  again. 
"  Busy,  ketchin'  a  chipmunk,"  she  said.  "  Wal,  he 
can  come  in  through  the  cat-hole." 

But  in  the  morning  there  was  no  warm  cushion  on 
Miss  Mahala's  feet,  no  great  soft  eyes  waiting  for 
hers  to  open.  All  day  no  Pharaoh.  The  next  day 
she  was  much  cast  down.  She  put  out  little  dishes  of 
his  luxuries.  The  squirrels  came  and  emptied  them. 
She  called  him  in  endearing  tones.  She  sought  him 
in  the  woods,  her  apron  over  her  arm,  as  if  she  re- 


288  The  Elder's  People 

membered  the  story  of  her  Aunt  Bashy  looking 
through  the  forest  for  the  bones  of  her  lost  babies. 
"  He  's  all  I  got  in  the  world,"  she  murmured.  A 
song-sparrow  flirted  his  feathers  and  poured  out  a  gush 
of  melody,  and  a  cat-bird  mocked  her  with  Pha- 
raoh's voice  as  she  went.  Little  furry  things  skimmed 
across  her  path ;  but  none  of  them  was  Pharaoh. 

The  tears  ran  down  her  old  sun-tanned  cheeks,  as 
she  sat  on  her  door-step  at  night.  "  He 's  been  friend 
an'  companion,  an'  he  loves  me,"  she  exclaimed.  "The 
only  created  thin'  that  does.  He 's  caught  somewheers 
an'  is  sufferin'.  Pharaoh  —  raoh  —  oh,  oh!"  she 
called  like  a  clarion,  and  listened  for  some  response 
faint  and  far  away,  and  wept  bitterly  when  none 
came.  It  was  not  altogether  for  Pharaoh ;  it  was  for 
all  that  he  represented  of  friends  and  family,  the  life 
of  long  ago  and  the  desert  of  to-day. 

She  was  worn  and  worried  when  a  week  had 
passed  without  Pharaoh.  "  There 's  more  in  the  house 
'n  I  want  now,"  she  said  to  the  gaunt  Martha,  who 
had  happened  in  with  some  cheese-cakes.  "  What's 
set  folks  out  ?  " 

"You  du  look  peaked,  Mahaly.  An*  ye  b'en 
makin'  yerwill,  an'  —  " 

"  Cat's  tail,  Marthy  !  Fact  is,  I  ain't  been  eatin'. 
That  makes  anybuddy  slim." 

"  W'y  ain't  ye  b'en  eatin'  ?  " 

"  I  do'  kno'.  Don't  seem  ter  relish.  I  've  lost 
Pharaoh,"  said  Miss  Mahala  slowly. 


Miss  Mahala's  Will  289 

"  Lost  who  ?  " 

"  Pharaoh.  My  cat." 

"  You  out  o'  yer  head,  Mahaly? 

"  I  wisht  I  was." 

"  Mahaly,  you  makin'  this  fuss  about  a  cat  ?  It 's 
pufFeckly  ludicurious." 

"  About  Pharaoh.  Pharaoh  was  more  'n  a  cat." 

"  W'y?  you  ain't  swep'  yer  floor!  " 

"  Marthy,  I  don't  keer  whether  schule  keeps  or 
not.  I  'm  dredfle  lonesome." 

Martha  stared  in  grim  want  of  comprehension. 

"  You  got  the  Deacon,  Marthy,  an'  Ruel,  an' 
Eunie  an'  all.  I  got  Pharaoh.  Leastways  I  hed  him, 
an'  he  was  all  I  hed.  He  went  in  the  garding  an' 
the  woods  'ith  me ;  slep'  'ith  me.  An'  I  do'  know 
ef  he  's  caught  in  some  trap,  an'  a-wonderin'  w'y 
I  've  forsook  him,  or  ef  he 's  dead,  or  ef  he 's 
stole—" 

"Who'd  steal  an  old  cat?" 

"  You  ain't  a  mite  comfortin',  Marthy." 

"  I  hed  n't  dreamt  ye  was  so  wantin',  Mahala.  A 
cat!" 

"Looks  as  ef  rain  was  comin'.  I  guess  you'd 
better  be  goin'  erlong,  Marthy,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

But  Martha  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  woods 
that  night,  and  heard  Miss  Mahala  callin'  "  Pharaoh 
—  raoh  —  oh,  oh  !  "  like  some  lonely  bird.  "  I  declare 
for't,"  said  Martha.  "  I  don't  unnerstan'  it.  But  it 
'most  makes  me  cry  myself." 


290  The  Elder's  People 

On  the  way  home  she  met  Kitty  McGregor;  and 
she  told  Kitty  about  it,  and  took  her  back  along  the 
wood-path  to  hear  the  cry  herself.  "  I  do'  know/* 
said  Martha,  "ef  it's  jes'  foolish,  or  jes'  techin'.  Ye 
don't  suppose  her  mind 's  give  out,  do  ye  ?  Livin' 
so  all  sole  alone  ?"  But  Kitty  hastened  home  to  Seth 
and  young  Kitty  and  the  fiddle.  If  the  loss  of  Pha- 
raoh would  divert  Miss  Mahala's  money  to  the  use 
of  the  meeting-house,  getting  Pharaoh  out  of  the  way 
was  good  missionary  work. 

The  bell  she  had  helped  buy  called  Miss  Mahala  to 
meeting.  She  had  usually  shut  Pharaoh  into  the  bed- 
room on  Sundays,  lest  he  followed  her.  If  he  could 
only  follow  her  now  !  She  sat  in  the  brown  shadows 
of  the  dusky  little  sanctuary,  her  best  garments  giv- 
ing her  no  satisfaction  —  the  shining,  if  rusty,  alpaca, 
the  Paisley  shawl,  the  bonnet  with  its  wrought  veil 
half  hiding  her  woebegone  countenance,  which  had 
always  afforded  her  a  superior  pleasure.  She  felt  as 
if  the  higher  powers  had  deserted  her.  "  About  a 
cat !  "  thought  more  than  one.  But  the  Elder  knew 
the  cat's  loss  had  only  accented  the  loneliness  and 
bitterness  of  her  life. 

The  altar  sparkled  with  its  snowy  cloth  and  bright 
vessels  in  the  dim  space.  She  herself  had  given  the 
service ;  it  was  pewter ;  but  it  shone  like  the  high- 
priest's  breastplate.  Her  face  brightened;  it  brought 
new  thoughts.  But  after  the  benediction  she  stalked 
out  without  speaking. 


Miss  Mahala's  Will  291 

Posy  Jones  lingered  on  the  steps.  She  remembered 
the  time  when  Miss  Mahala  brought  Pharaoh  and 
came  to  live  with  her  and  Peter  and  board  out  an 
old  debt.  Miss  Mahala  had  n't  cared  about  the  debt; 
but  she  knew  that  Posy  and  Peter  had  come  to  blows, 
as  you  may  say,  and  were  thinking  of  divorce  — 
and  there  'd  never  been  a  divorce  in  the  Settlement 
—  and  she  considered  her  being  there  would  make 
them  each  do  about  right  to  show  her  't  was  n't  theif 
fault.  And  it  did ;  and  they  were  so  peaceable  that 
they  fell  in  love  with  each  other  again.  And  then 
Miss  Mahala  went  home  with  Pharaoh  through  the 
woods  in  the  moonlight,  Pharaoh  having  gone  home 
to  see  if  things  were  right  there  every  day  of  his  stay. 
She  missed  Pharaoh  herself  after  they  went. 

"  It 's  no  use  talkin',  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Miss 
Mahala's  cat  was  folks  to  her.  She's  afflicted.  This 
perrish  ain't  nuthin'  better  ter  du  then  ter  turn  out 
an'  hunt  fer  Pharaoh  !  " 

"  That 's  right,"  said  Mr.  Cy  Thomas.  "  Miss 
Mahala 's  b'en  the  savin'  grace  o'  this  community. 
Ef  she 's  in  trouble,  it 's  us  to  help  her  out.  Sabbath 
or  no  Sabbath  !   What  say,  Elder  ?  " 

"  Who  '11  join  me  in  the  search  ?  "  said  the  Elder. 
And  wood  and  field  were  scoured  that  nooning; 
but  without  avail. 

It  was  later,  on  the  night  of  that  day,  that  a  dark 
shape  again  ran  through  the  woods,  wearing  a  bulg- 
ing and  struggling  shawl.  And  when  Miss  Mahala 


292  '  The  Elder's  People  ' 

went  to  the  door  for  her  hopeless  good-night  call, 
Pharaoh  came  purring  round  her  feet. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  hadn't  drownded  him,"  said  Kitty 
McGregor  to  herself,  quite  ready  to  cry  as  she  ran. 

"  I  feel  as  if  the  Lord  hed  forgive  me,"  said  Miss 
Mahala,  while  she  held  Pharaoh  much  closer  than 
Pharaoh  liked  to  be  held.  "  Though  I  reely  don't 
know  what  for !  " 

A  knot  of  men,  on  their  way  to  the  mowing, 
some  mornings  later,  were  passing  the  garden  where 
the  Elder  stood  among  his  wife's  ascension  lilies. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Elder.  "Pharaoh  turned  up  all 
right,  lucky  cat !  Yes,  it 's  true,  Mr.  Thomas,  Miss 
Mahala  —  it 's  no  secret  —  among  other  bequests 
gives  a  good  sum  to  the  parish.  But  she  has  pro- 
vided Pharaoh  with  a  maintenance  for  life  out  of 
the  fund." 

"  Wisht  I  was  Pharaoh !  "  said  Jerry  Dow,  as 
he  shuffled  along. 


A  LIFE  IN  A  NIGHT 


XIII 

A  Life  in  a  Night 

HOW  many  an  evening  had  Miss  Mahala  sat  on 
her  doorstep,  as  now,  with  her  varying  thoughts, 
looking  at  the  sunset  without  seeing  it !  By  rights, 
Pharaoh  should  have  been  on  the  gate-post,  the  ruddy 
rays  burnishing  his  blackness,  aloof  and  impassive, 
but  turning  now  and  then  a  wary  eye  in  her  direc- 
tion. But  Pharaoh  rested  in  a  far  corner,  with  a  bed 
of  catnip  on  his  little  grave ;  and  because  of  Miss 
Mahala's  absolute  need  of  something  to  love  she  was 
companioned  now  by  a  yellow  cur  that  she  had  picked 
up,  sick  and  sorry,  by  the  wayside,  and  by  some  acci- 
dent of  speech  to  which  he  had  answered,  had  called 
Zip,  who  was  never  able  sufficiently  to  express  his 
devotion  with  his  brown,  beseeching  eyes  and  his 
stumpy  tail. 

"  A  mongrel,"  the  Elder  had  said.  "  But  then  a 
mongrel  holds  all  dog-dom,  you  know." 

Zip  was  looking  at  her  now,  wistfully,  as  if  im- 
ploring her  to  tell  him  the  desire  of  her  heart  that 
he  might  help  her  to  it.  Every  now  and  then  he  gave 
a  short  yelp,  and  sprang  about  a  moment,  and  then 
returned  to  the  tranquil  sympathy  and  loving  look. 

But  Miss  Mahala  could  not  have  told  Zip  the 
desire  of  her  heart.  She  could  not  have  told  herself. 


296  .  The  Elder's  People 

She  was  thinking  of  old  days,  a  thing  she  seldom 
allowed  herself  to  do.  Sometimes  she  would  suddenly 
come  upon  a  recollection,  as  one  opens  a  book  upon 
a  pressed  rose,  meeting  a  sweet  and  surprising  fra- 
grance, even  although  with  a  sense  of  the  dust  of 
death;  but  not  when  it  was  concerning  Jerry  — 
Jerry  Dow.  She  was  remembering  the  morning  long 
ago,  when,  at  first  with  difficulty  and  then  with  a 
rush  of  words,  she  had  told  the  Elder,  who  was  mak- 
ing her  will,  the  tragedy  of  her  poor  life ;  remember- 
ing the  days  when  Jerry  came  to  her  for  sympathy 
and  for  her  respect  for  the  manhood  in  him  —  the 
slouching,  shifty  creature,  with  no  more  force  than 
an  oyster.  He  had  leaned  on  her,  looked  up  to  her, 
was  something  to  be  helped.  And  beginning  with  pity 
that  grew  intense,  she  had  ended  with  an  affection 
equally  intense,  and  with  a  certain  delicacy  of  love 
which  was  unconsciously  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that 
his  inaptness  demanded  a  great  tenderness. 

How  many  a  morning  had  they  tramped  the  woods 
and  swamps  for  the  roots  and  herbs  from  which  she 
had  begun  to  make  her  livelihood.  All  the  sheen  of 
the  dew-wet  thickets,  all  the  sparkles  of  the  plashy 
pools,  all  the  brilliance  of  leaf  and  petal,  seemed  to 
surround  Jerry  so  that  they  became,  as  it  were,  a 
part  of  him.  She  suspected  that  to  many  another  he 
was  neither  manly  nor  noble  in  appearance,  but  she 
saw,  or  thought  she  did,  his  soul  shining  through  his 
face  so  clearly  that  to  her  he  liad  become  beautiful. 


A  Life  in  a  Night  297 

The  time  he  killed  the  big  black  snake  that  was 
charming  a  bird,  the  time  he  drove  off  the  wildcat 
that  had  strayed  down  from  the  great  forests,  the 
time  he  took  Deacon  Asher's  bull  by  the  horns  while 
she  fled  for  the  fence  —  in  those  times  he  seemed 
manly  enough.  The  evening  of  the  day  he  killed  the 
snake  they  had  heard  a  waking  bird  pour  forth  a 
moment's  bubbling  music.  "  The  snake,"  Jerry  said, 
"  would  have  spelled  that  little  bird." 

''It  was  like  an  evil  sperrit  follerin'  a  white 
soul,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

"  That  music  that 's  shet  up  in  'em  is  allers  a 
mystery  ter  me ;  all  that  singin'  and  gladness  in  that 
pinch  o'  feathers,"  he  said.   "  It 's  a  mericle." 

How  many  an  evening  they  had  sat  on  this  door- 
stone,  spelling  out  the  constellations  and  weaving 
their  fancies  from  star  to  star.  He  had  such  rare  and 
strange  fancies,  she  thought,  as  he  talked  of  the  jour- 
neys they  would  one  day  make  among  those  stars, 
floating  together  through  space.  "  P'raps  we  shall 
meet  a  troop  of  angels  on  the  way,"  he  said.  "  You  're 
a'most  an  angel  now,  Mahaly.  Elder  ses  angels  on'y 
means  messengers,  an'  you  've  be'n  a  messenger  of 
God  to  me,  Mahaly.  Mahaly  —  it 's  a  lovely  name, 
jest  a-breathin'." 

And  at  another  time,  "  'T  ain't  in  reason  ter  s'pose 
them  stars  goes  on  and  on  an'  comes  out  on  noth- 
in',"  he  would  say.  "  P'r'aps  w'en  they  du  stop 
't  will  be  right  up  agin  the  great  white  throne, 


» 


298  The  Elder's  People 

And  Miss  Mahala  met  his  imaginings  so  that  she 
was  a  constant  stimulus  to  him. 

Sitting  there  now  in  the  twilight  gloom,  with  the 
breath  of  the  wild  roses  about  her  and  the  stars 
slowly  sifting  out  of  the  purple,  remembrance  came 
of  Jerry  pottering  with  the  wild-flowers  when  he 
should  have  been  up  the  hill  hoeing  his  mother's 
com.  But  Jerry  was  outside  of  material  things ;  he 
must  be  left  free  for  his  search  into  the  secrets  of 
nature,  whether  of  the  spiritual  or  of  the  earthy. 
Once  he  was  shaking  the  pollen-dust  of  a  late  apple 
blossom  into  the  heart  of  a  wild  rose.  "  The  outside 
of  a  rose-hip  is  sweet 's  a  St.  Michael's  pear,"  he 

said. 

"  What  there  is  of  it,"  she  assented. 

"  An'  now,  ef  this  takes,  we  '11  hev  rose-hips  the 
size  of  apples,"  he  declared.  And  when  he  was  ex- 
perimenting again  with  an  evening  primrose  and  a 
white  mallow,  "  'T  ain't  thet  I  wanter  change  the 
evenin'  primrose,"  he  explained.  "There  ain't  a 
sweeter  flower  blows  fer  its  pale  yaller  and  its  smell 
and  all.  But  I  wanter  see  how  God  felt  w'en  he 
made  a  new  flower." 

It  was  no  surprise  to  her,  when,  in  later  years,  he 
was  said  to  have  found  a  new  way  of  manipulating 
numbers.  She  remembered  that  numbers  had  always 
interested  him,  he  proved  his  sums  on  the  black- 
board by  "  casting  out  the  nines." 

"  There  's  power  in  that  number,"  he  said.  "  It's 


A  Life  in  a  Night  299 

a  mystery.  It 's  mebbe  got  sunthin'  ter  du  'ith  reli- 
gion. Three  times  three  is  nine,  an'  w'en  ye  've  got 
nine  ye  can't  never  gid  rid  on  it.  Nine  times  two  is 
eighteen,  an'  eight  an'  one  is  nine,  an'  nine  times 
three  is  twenty-seven  —  't  is,  ain't  it  ?  —  an'  two  an' 
seven  makes  nine.  An'  so  on  up  to  billions.  You 
could  do  sunthin'  'ith  nine  ef  ye  on'y  knowed  how. 
It  must  'a'  be'n  used  somehow  w'en  the  world  an' 
the  worlds  was  set  a-goin'." 

But  more  often  than  not  the  two  sat  side  by  side 
in  the  soft  dusk,  saying  nothing,  each  feeling  the 
other's  presence  as  if  at  one  with  the  universe.  Some- 
times it  almost  seemed  then  to  Miss  Mahala  in  the 
summer  dark  and  the  murmur  of  the  forest  that  she 
heard  the  answering  voice  of  the  great  sweet  earth, 
and  the  call  of  space  to  the  movement  of  the  stars. 

Jerry  usually  went  to  meeting  with  her.  "  I  love 
Sunday,"  he  said.  "It's  allers  a  great  stillness. 
Seems 's  ef  the  birds  themselves  knowed  't  was 
Sunday." 

"/'w  allers  expectin'  sunthin'  new  ter  happen 
Mondays,"  she  replied. 

But  it  was  on  Sunday,  instead,  that  something  new 
happened.  For  suddenly  there  was  Eunice. 

Eunice  had  been  born  and  bred  in  the  Settlement. 
She  had  been  seen  in  meeting  Sundays,  and,  being  a 
light  thistle-down  sort  of  thing,  almost  everywhere 
else  on  other  days.  Slightly  pretty,  trifling,  helpless, 
there  was  no  reason  why  any  one  should  fall  in  love 


300  The  Elder's  People 

with  her.  But  the  electric  touch  of  love  comes  like  a 
finger  out  of  heaven,  unforeseen,  undreamed.  It 
touched  Jerry  with  a  sudden  sweet  fire  one  day  and 
left  him  breathless,  bewildered,  and  full  of  a  wild 
joy  he  had  never  known  before. 

When  Jerry  failed  his  tryst  that  night  Miss 
Mahala  wondered,  with  a  vague  uneasiness.  But  on 
a  week  of  absence  she  went  from  wonder  to  dismay, 
and  paced  the  path,  up  and  down,  unreasoning,  from 
dark  till  dawn ;  and  then  sank  to  a  passive  dullness 
that  dimly  recognized  the  truth,  while  she  took  up 
her  usual  tasks. 

One  day,  then,  in  broad  daylight,  Jerry  came  back. 
She  was  sorting  an  apronful  of  balm.  To  her  dying 
day  that  pleasant  pungent  odor  of  balm  gave  her 
a  pang.  He  stood  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  Mahaly,"  he 
said,  *'  I  shan't  never  fergit  ye,  nor  w'at  an'  all  ye  've 
be'n  ter  me.  Ef  a  man  could  hev  two  wives  —  " 

"  But  he  can't,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

"  An'  —  an'  — there  's  Eunice,"  he  said. 

"I  see,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

For  an  instant  all  was  black,  and  a  great  wind 
was  singing  in  her  ears.  Yet  this  would  never  do ; 
—  the  dint  her  finger-nails  made  in  her  palms  was 
there  long  after  nightfall. 

"I'm  glad  ye  du,  Mahaly,"  he  said.  "You 
allers  was  senserble.  An'  she  's  so  gentle-like  an' 
sweet.  She  's  awfle  pretty,  ain't  she,  Mahaly  ?  "    , 


A  Life  in  a  Night  301 

**  Awfle,''  said  Miss  Mahala  ;  and  she  heard  her 
voice  like  the  echo  of  a  hollow  rumble  on  the  air. 

"  Jesso.  I  do'  know  where  my  eyes  hes  be'n. 
She's  powerfle  pretty  —  an'  good  besides.  An'  then 
it 's  all  oif  betwixt  you  an'  me,  an'  no  harm  done  ?  " 

"All  off,"  she  said,  as  well  as  her  dry  lips  would 
allow. 

"An'  ye  don't  feel  ter  be  sorry,  or  hold  hard- 
ness, do  ye?  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  dreary  smile,  her  face 
ghastly.  But  Jerry  saw  nothing.  The  thought  of 
Eunice's  rose-color  bloom  so  filled  his  eye  that  all 
was  rose-color. 

If  Miss  Mahala  could  have  screamed,  one  sharp, 
explosive  scream  —  But  she  felt  as  if  she  were  dead. 
It  was  like  the  voice  of  a  disembodied  spirit,  to  her 
perception,  that  she  heard  one  saying,  far  off  and 
thin,  "  The  Lord  bless  ye,  Jerry.  An'  Eunice,  too. 
An'  w'en  ye  want  a  bed  o'  balm,  come  down  here  an* 
git  the  seed.  Ye  've  on'y  gotter  ast."  And  she  rose,  as  a 
queen  might  end  an  interview;  and  Jerry  disappeared 
into  the  piece  of  woods,  going  up  the  hill  beyond  with 
a  foot  as  light  as  his  heart.  And  she  knew  how  the 
ashes  of  a  great  fire  drowned  and  drenched  might  feel. 

Miss  Mahala,  afterwards,  when  the  tumult  had 
subsided  and  grief  had  done  its  work,  never  felt 
ashamed  of  her  experience.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  glad  to  recall  how  proud  and  straight  Jerry 
stood  as  he  spoke,  with  no  stammering  or  faltering. 


302  The  Elder's  People 

Poor  Jerry  —  he  never  stood  proud  and  sti'aight 
again ! 

With  Eunice  to  wife,  all  Jerry's  finer  dreams  and 
fancies  died  away.  He  still  played  with  flower- 
seeds  and  did  something  with  wild  apples  on  the 
road  to  Salt  Water.  But  marvelings  and  speculat- 
ings  and  poesies  left  him.  He  had  no  one  to  listen 
to  them  or  care  for  them.  He  fell  into  dull  silence, 
and  presently  forgot  them. 

"  She  ain't  percisely  feeble-minded,"  Miss  Ma- 
hala  thought  when  she  could  think  at  all.  "  But  she 
,  ain't  all  there.  She  '11  pull  him  down.  Poor  boy, 
poor  Jerry  I ' ' 

And  Eunice  did  pull  him  down.  Unconsciously 
she  did  not  want  him  to  live  on  any  other  level 
than  her  own.  Year  by  year  he  grew  more  limp, 
more  shriveled  in  his  soul,  less  alive  even  in  his 
body.  "As  wuthless  as  Jerry  Dow,"  the  younger 
Settlement  used  to  say. 

It  was  not  only  her  own  loss  that  distressed  Miss 
Mahala.  In  the  enclosed  garden  of  the  narrow  Set- 
tlement she  had  found  in  Jeny^  and  his  dreams  a 
satisfaction  for  her  hunger  for  the  poetic  and  the 
fantastic.  That  was  over.  Now  it  was  the  pain  of 
seeing  Jerry's  increasing  degeneracy.  But  when  time 
had  deadened  sensation  her  mind  took  on  an  atti- 
tude of  waiting ;  and  except  for  occasion  she  came 
finally  to  a  placid  forgetfulness.  Nothing  was  lost, 
but  all  was  overgrown. 


J  Life  in  a  Night  303 

Before  this  tranquillity  she  had  a  degree  of  com- 
fort in  little  Euny,  whom  she  lured  with  checkerber- 
ries,  and  beechnuts,  and  the  spicy  tang  of  curly  yel- 
low red-cedar  buds.  Eunice,  however,  put  an  end  to 
that.  And  then  she  saw  but  little  of  the  child  until 
Euny  was  grown  and  had  married  Reuel  Asher, 
and  sometimes  ran  through  the  woods  for  a  pinch 
of  sweet  herbs,  or  a  dose  of  the  various  cordials  that 
Miss  Mahala's  little  still  helped  her  to  compound, 
and  which  it  was  her  delight  to  use  on  any  sufferer 
in  the  Settlement,  where  she  divided  medical  honors 
with  the  Elder. 

She  was  recalling  those  happy  and  unhappy  days, 
as  it  chanced,  feeling  solitary  and  forsaken  but  for 
Zip's  guardian  care.  She  had  heard,  that  day,  of 
Jerry's  illness,  and  Sally  Moss  had  misdoubted  her 
if  he  would  ever  gather  sprawl  enough  to  rise  from 
the  bed.  Reuel  had  had  a  doctor  up  from  Salt 
Water,  who  had  n't  thought  it  likely. 

Suddenly  Zip  gave  a  short  bark  and  sprang  up  in 
a  gay  excitement.  And  then  a  clear  voice  was  call- 
ing with  an  accent  of  distress,  and  Euny  came  run- 
ning through  the  wood.  "  Oh,  Miss  Mahaly,  Miss 
Mahaly!"  she  cried.  "Pa's  awfle  low,  an'  ma's 
off  somewheres  down  ter  Salt  Water  ter  see  a  mee- 
jum  about  him  —  pa  useter  say  he'd  half  a  mind 
ter,  himself,  sometimes  w'en  there  was  a  blight 
threatenin'  the  com.  I  do'  know  w'at  ter  du !  He  's 
goin'  ter  die !    Oh,  I  know  he 's  goin'  ter  die !  "  she 


304  The  Elder's  People 

exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands.  "Can't  you  come 
up  an'  bring  some  o'  yer  filterin's  an'  help  him  ?  An' 
oh,  Miss  Mahala,  I  du  love  pa !  He 's  never  hed 
half  a  chanst.  An'  he  's  allers  be'n  good  ter  me  — 
poor  pa  dear  —  "  sobbing  into  her  apron. 

Miss  Mahala  was  at  the  cupboard  where  her 
treasures  kept  their  potencies  in  the  dark,  before 
Euny  finished.  She  lighted  her  tallow  dip,  and 
looked  here  and  looked  there,  taking  up  this  a  mo- 
ment, putting  it  down  and  taking  up  that.  "  Here 
we  are,"  she  said  directly.  "Ye 're  all  short  o' 
breath,  child.  That's  bad.  Now  you  go  slow.  I'll 
rise  the  hill  in  no  time  at  all.  P'r'aps  —  anyway,  I 
may  make  dyin'  easy.  You  stay  there.  Zip.  No, 
you  stay  there!  "  And  she  was  off,  Euny  vainly  fol- 
lowing. And  Zip,  with  downcast  tail  and  a  little 
questioning  defiance  in  his  eye,  held  the  open  door. 

If  Miss  Mahala  did  not  expect  success,  neverthe- 
less she  threw  down  a  bold  challenge  to  fate.  It  was 
a  hard  fight  she  had  in  those  dark  hours.  And  she 
came  off  beaten. 

As,  after  her  bitter  experience,  Miss  Mahala 
walked  through  the  piece  of  woods  that  separated 
her  place  from  the  rest  of  the  Settlement,  she  found 
herself  strangely  divided  between  a  deep  depression 
and  a  certain  happiness. 

In  the  middle  of  the  wood,  where  it  was  yet  very 
dark  and  of  a  deadly  stillness,  trouble  weighed  upon 


A  Life  in  a  Night  305 

her.  The  world  seemed  full  of  sorrow.  She  won- 
dered why  people  rejoiced  when  one  was  bom  into 
this  suffering,  with  death  at  the  end.  She  forgot  that 
the  Elder  had  once  said  that  death  was  the  archway 
through  which  one  looked  out  upon  infinite  life.  She 
did  not  articulate  her  disordered  thoughts ;  but  they 
were  part  of  a  subconsciousness  of  misery.  The  tears 
rolled  down  her  thin  brown  cheeks  as  she  walked. 

And  yet  a  joy  had  been  hers  that  night  which  had 
made  her  tired  heart  beat  as  if  it  were  young  again. 
She  came  out  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  suddenly 
against  the  gray  of  the  morning  shone  a  clear,  white 
star,  its  radiance  like  one  speaking  to  her. 

The  Elder,  whom  she  had  left  in  the  house  on 
the  hill,  came  on  with  that  quick  step  of  his,  like  the 
pad  of  a  fox  over  brush.  "  The  bright  and  morning 
star,"  he  said.  "John  could  find  nothing  more  fit 
for  deity.  *  I  am  the  root  and  the  offspring  of  David, 
and  the  bright  and  morning  star.'  It  is  like  a  Pres- 
ence. Was  the  night  so  very  desperate  ?  "  he  asked 
then,  gently,  as  she  made  no  reply. 

"  Might  'a'  be'n  wuss,"  she  answered.  She  stooped 
to  pluck  a  late  white  violet.  "  I  did  n't  see  that 
blow,"  she  said,  "  but  I  sort  o*  sense  'em,  out  o'  my 
yarb-gath'rin'."  She  went  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 
"There!"  she  broke  forth  at  last,  "I've  said  so 
much  to  ye.  Elder,  that  day  ye  was  a-makin'  my  last 
will  an'  testymunt,  that  it 's  no  use  pertendin'  now. 
I  did  n't  know  it  myself,  anyways,  0'  course  it  was 


306  The  Elder's  People 

plain  to  a  child  w'at  Jerry  'd  growed  ter  be.  An'  I 
thought  I  'd  done  'ith  carin'  fer  w'at  he  was  wunst, 
or  w'at  I  'd  thought  he  was.  But  somehow,  some- 
wheres,  way  underneath,  I  s'pose,  there  must  'a'  be'n 
a  feelin',  a  hope,  all  unbeknownst  ter  me,  covered 
up  by  the  dust  o'  years,  that  the  old  Jerry  was  still 
there,  the  Jerry  that  thought  I  was  in  the  counsels  o' 
the  Lord.  I  did  n't  know  I  expected  —  but  seems  I 
did  —  that  come  ter  the  eend  he  'd  speak  my  name 
—  sort  o'  summons  me  ter  meet  him  over  beyond. 
He  did  n't.  He  ses,  '  Eunice,  my  wife.'  Ses  it  over 
an'  over.  She  that  was  the  ruinin'  of  him,  'ith  her 
pretty  face  an'  her  shifless  slackness.  Made  so  — 
like  a  bird  of  the  air.  '  Eunice,'  he  ses.  He  was  fur 
gone.  He  did  n't  rekernize  me.  Did  n't  know  me 
fum  the  side  o'  the  house.  '  She  's  be'n  sent  fer,'  I 
ses.  *  Who  be  you  ? '  he  ast,  lookin'  at  me  'ith  them 
wide,  wanderin'  eyes  o'  his'n  that  never  seemed  ter 
see  nothin'  nowadays,  an'  that  in  old  times  useter 
look  a' most  inter  heaven.   '  Who  be  you  ? '  he  ast. 

*  Mahaly,'  ses  I.  '  Mahaly  who  ?  '  ses  he.  Jest  a 
w'isper.  Hardly  stren'th  fer  that.  Think  of  it.  Elder ! 

*  Mahaly  who  ? '  An'  wunst  he  all  but  breathed 
through  me.  Wunst  I  'd  be'n  his  life  an'  soul.  But 
when  he  'd  merried  Eunice  he  never  seemed  ter  hev 
eyther  life  or  soul.  She  hed  n't  wanted  his  eyes  ter 
look  inter  heaven.  Ses  he  then,  '  Whoever  ye  be, 
raise  me  up !  Ye  're  powerfle.  Keep  me  alive  tell 
Eunice  comes.  Ye  can,  can't  ye  ?  Fer  God's  sake, 


A  Life  in  a  Night  307 

du ! '  Wal,  I  'd  run  up  the  minute  I  'd  heered  how 
't  was  'ith  him  ;  an'  I  'd  fetched  the  drops  I  'd  put 
up  years  ago,  fer  extreme  cases,  the  stronges'  an' 
subtles'  I  'd  ever  made,  'stilled  an'  'stilled  ag'in. 
I  measured  him  ten  drops,  an'  then  twenty,  an' 
then  a  teaspoonfle.  An'  I  see  the  flush  come  inter  his 
face  nateral,  an'  felt  his  pulse  slow  down  an'  git 
stiddy.  An'  then  he  ses,  quite  strong,  '  You  —  ye 
make  me  so  comT table  —  so  comT table.  God  bless 
ye !  Seem  's  ef  I  could  breathe  easy  —  feel  's  ef  I 
was  made  over  new.  I  —  I  don't  b'lieve  but  w'at 
I  '11  win  thru.'  He  looked  up,  his  eyes  all  fevered 
an'  shinin'.  'You,  Eunice? '  he  ses.  An'  then,  look- 
in'  straight  at  me,  he  all  to  wunst  begun  ter  count 
—  millions  —  billions  —  trillions  —  way  up  to  no- 
nillions  —  decillions  —  an'  he  was  gone.  Fer  a 
minute,  w'en  he  ses, '  you,  Eunice  ? '  I  did  n't  know  but 
I  was  all  ter  him  that  Eunice  was,  seein'  he  did  n't 
know  the  diff'runce.  He  never  knowed  she  war  n't 
nothin'.  An'  I  come  away  an'  leP  you  in  the  other 
room  'ith  the  rest  on  'em.  I  'd  liketer  stayed  an' 
comforted  Euny,  Reuel  Asher's  Euny.  She  loved 
her  pa  jes'  becos  he  was  so  useless.  But  I  —  I  needed 
the  dark  of  all  outdoors.  I  s'pose  by  ter-morrer  I  '11 
see  w'at  a  fool  I  be.  But  jes'  ter-night  it  seems  's  ef 
everythin'  hed  come  ter  an  eend  upstandin' .  Ef  I  'd 
'a'  be'n  merried  I  prob'bly  should  n't  'a'  fooled 
much  'ith  my  still,  an'  so  I  should  n't  'a'  hed  them 
drops  thet  tided  him  over  the  dark  waters  so  com- 


308  The  Elder's  People 

Ttable.  I  do'  know  but  I  'd  ruther  bed  that  granted 
me  —  as  'twas — than  be'n  given  years  o'  heart's 
desire.  There 's  where  some  joy  comes  in.  I  give 
him  the  last  comfort,  the  last  plaisure,  he  bed  in  his 
life.  An'  that 's  w'at  that  bright  an'  momin'  star 
bed  ter  say  to  me.  Jes'  ter  put  me  in  mind.  See,  it 's 
a-fallin'  back  amongst  the  pink  an'  yaller  every-day 
clouds.  It 's  said  its  say.  Dear  Lord  in  Heaven,  it 's 
another  day,  an'  I  'm  alive  on  this  'arth  an'  Jerry 
gone  !  —  Goin'  bum  ter  bev  a  good  sleep  ?  Ye  need 
it,  Elder." 

"And  you,  too.  Miss  Mabala." 
*'  I  don't  b'lieve  I  '11  git  ter  sleep  ter-day." 
"  You  mean  you  will  be  living  over  in  the  further 
life — Is  it  best?  " 

"  I  s'pose  be  ain't  hardly  wuth  follerin'.  But  ef  I 
don't,  nobody  will.  I  would  n't  'a'  dreamt  it  of  me! 
Wal,  anyways,  I  gotter  be  busy.  I  promised  old  lady 
Hill  I  'd  fetch  her  some  essence  o'  spearmint  —  she  's 
kind  o'  spindlin'  —  an'  it 's  jes'  ready  fer  geth'rin' 
'ith  the  mornin'-dew  on  it."  She  was  silent  a  little 
space,  disentangling  her  gown  from  a  wild  rasp- 
berry vine  that  ran  out  to  clutch  it.  And  then,  as 
she  went  on,  she  said,  "Billions  —  trillions — no- 
nillions.  I  larned  'em  to  him.  He  must  'a'  reely 
knowed  't  was  me  —  " 

"Nonillions  —  decillions  —  "    said    the    Elder. 
Don't  you  see  ?  He  was  among   infinite  numbers 
' —  infinite  things." 


^  Life  in  a  Night  309 

"  Infinite  thin's.  You  allers  do  say  the  right  word, 
Elder !  "  And  then,  their  paths  dividing.  Miss 
Mahala  picked  up  her  skirts,  and  went  on  alone 
through  the  drenching  and  shining  dew. 

Presently  she  was  aware  of  another  companion- 
ship ;  and  looking  down  she  saw  Zip,  with  an  eye 
and  an  ear  cocked  up  at  her,  doubtful  but  determined. 
She  stooped  to  lay  her  hand  on  his  little  rough  head. 
"  Oh,  Zip,"  she  said,  "you  're  on'y  a  little  mongrel 
yaller  dog —  but  w'at  a  comfort  ye  be !  " 


MISS  MAHALA  AND  JOHNNY 


XIV 

Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny 

I  DO  not  defend  Miss  Mahala.  I  hope  it  is  under- 
stood that  I  do  not  defend  her. 

But  all  the  same,  I  never  had  any  sympathy  with 
the  Jeanie  Deans  sort  of  people  who  would  risk  their 
sisters'  lives  rather  than  their  own  little  paltering  souls. 

Miss  Mahala  had  great  sorrows  in  her  life;  she 
had  also  had  great  and  troublous  joys.  But  now  her 
interests  were  reduced  to  such  as  she  found  in  a  gen- 
eral oversight  of  the  Settlement.  She  did  not  regard 
herself  as  Elder  Perry's  coadjutor,  but  she  filled  much 
the  same  office,  as  the  Elder  was  wont  to  remark  to 
his  wife.  When  he  first  came  to  the  scattered  parish 
she  instructed  him  in  the  varying  idiosyncrasies  there ; 
and  ever  since  she  had  been  not  only  his  curate,  but 
his  conscience.  He  learned  to  know  his  people  and 
love  them  every  one,  but  Miss  Mahala  knew  their 
fathers  and  their  grandfathers,  had  seen  most  of 
them  the  day  they  were  bom,  and  could  tell  to  a 
nicety  what  strains  of  inheritance  they  carried  and 
what  might  be  expected  of  them.  She  had  been  down 
in  Salt  Water  when  the  Elder  married  his  wife  there, 
and  she  knew  of  certain  things  in  Mrs.  Perrj^'s  an- 
cestry that  probably  Mrs.  Perry  did  not  know  her- 
self; and  when  the  Perry  children  came  into  the  world 


314  The  Elder's  People 

one  after  another,  Miss  Mahala  had  vivid  appre- 
hensions, only  quieted  by  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Perry's 
angelic  personality.  And  yet  she  knew  that  a  many- 
colored  ray  may  fall  through  a  crystal  and  leave  it 
white  and  limpid  as  spring  water.  However,  life 
with  the  Elder  might  have  nullified  all  the  colored 
ray,  she  fancied.  Yet  she  watched  Una  and  St.  John 
and  Luke  and  Steve  and  the  twins  and  at  last  little 
Peace  with  an  anxiety  that  would  have  disturbed 
their  father  and  mother  had  they  known  of  it. 

Miss  Mahala's  worst  fears  began  to  be  confirmed 
when  one  day  she  found  St.  John  Perry  red-handed, 
or  rather  green-handed,  in  her  herb-garden,  the  plot 
of  ground  where  grew  her  dill  and  savory  and  sweet 
basil  and  lavender  and  thyme  and  their  congeners, 
many  of  which  she  had  brought  in  from  wood  and 
field,  and  nurtured,  and  which  she  gathered  and  sold, 
or  from  which  she  incanted  simples  to  be  administered 
to  those  in  need  of  them. 

What  was  Johnny  Perry  doing  in  her  garden? 
The  answer  was  here.  Both  of  his  hands  were  full 
of  her  precious  mint  —  that  mint  which  was  to  have 
been  distilled  into  extract  and  oil,  but  which  lads 
liked  to  chew,  and  the  possession  of  which  was  a  kind 
of  wealth.  And  her  pennyroyal,  moreover,  to  be 
smoked  in  old  corncobs  behind  the  barn!  You  may 
be  sure  the  surprised  Johnny  was  dealt  with,  and 
stripped  of  his  spoils  that  they  might  he  thrown  into 
Miss  Mahala's  small  still.  But  presently  she  softened. 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  315 

Poor  little  lad !  she  thought ;  he  was  no  worse  than 
other  boys.  What  boy  would  n't  take  a  sprig  of  pen- 
nyroyal if  he  came  across  it !  She  called  after  him 
and  gave  him  back  the  treasure ;  and  proud  and  happy 
he  went  off,  feeling,  after  all,  an  honest  boy,  and  ready 
to  trade  with  boys  less  fortunate.  "  Jes'  thin's  that 
grow  in  the  fields,  free  to  all,''  said  Johnny  to  himself. 

The  incident  remained  in  Miss  Mahala's  inner 
consciousness,  but  without  much  emphasis.  It  was 
restored  to  life,  however,  when  one  August  afternoon, 
a  year  later,  she  saw  St.  John  Perry  under  the  Au- 
gust pippin-tree,  his  pockets  bulging  and  his  hat  full 
of  the  delicious  yellow  spheres. 

"Johnny!  Ag'in!  "  she  cried. 

"  I  ain't  never  took  any  before.  I  thought  you  'd 
jest  as  lieves  I  hed  one  o'  yer  apples,"  whimpered 
Johnny. 

"So  I  would  if  you  ast,"  she  replied.  "How 
many  you  took  ? " 

Johnny  showed  his  hat. 

"That  all?" 

Johnny  nodded. 

"Turn  your  pockets  out.'* 

Johnny  squirmed;  but  Miss  Mahala's  hand  was 
a  compelling  one.  Pockets  and  the  bulge  of  his 
jacket  brought  to  light  a  dozen  pippins. 

"  You  come  into  the  house  with  me !  " 
Johnny  squirmed  again ;  but  Miss  Mahala's  eye 
was  as  compelling  as  her  hand. 


316  The  Elder' s  People 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  was  a  thief,  Johnny,"  said 
Miss  Mahala  sadly. 

"  I  ain't,"  said  Johnny. 

"  An'  an  impenitent  thief  at  that.  Do  you  know 
what  became  of  the  impenitent  thief?  " 

"  I  don't  care  !  He  would  n't  let  me  hev  any !  "  ; 

"  Who  ?  The  impenitent  thief?  " 

"  I  mean  daddy  would  n't.  He  would  n't  let  me 
hev  one  of  the  sweetings." 

"  They  ain't  ripe.  They  '11  be  better  eatin'  come 
a  week  after  ter-morrow." 

"  He  won't  give  me  any  then  They  're  fer  sick 
folks,  he  says." 

"  Your  father 's  a  presidin'  elder,  an'  it  ain't  fit 
an'  proper  fer  you  to  call  him  *  he '  that  way." 

"  You  mean  I  should  call  him  ^  she,'  Miss  Ma- 
haly  ? "  asked  Johnny,  lifting  his  great,  innocent- 
looking  blue  eyes,  and  quite  willing  to  change  the 
question. 

"I  'm  afraid  you're  a  bad  boy,  St.  John." 

"  P'r'aps  I  be,"  said  St.  John  indifferently. 

"  St.  John  Perry,  do  you  want  to  break  yer 
father's  heart  ? " 

Johnny  looked  up  incredulously.  "  Does  it  hurt  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"Hurt?  It  kills!" 

Miss  Mahala  was  not  sure  that  Johnny's  lip 
quivered.  "I  s'pose  you  know,"  she  said,  "you,  a 
parson's  son,  that  it 's  wrong  to  steal  ? " 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  317 

"  Do'  know  's  I  do,"  Johnny  replied.  "  'Ith  so 
much  talk  about  what 's  right  an'  what  ain't,  a  fel- 
ler gits  mixed  up." 

"  St.  John,  it 's  bad  enough  to  steal.  Don't  add 
a  lie  to  it.  That's  wuss." 

"  Wuss  to  lie?  "  asked  St.  John. 

"  It  upsets  the  balance  o'  thin's.  The  Lord  might 
fergive  ye  fer  hankerin'  an'  helpin'  yerself,  but  a 
lie'sjes'  contradictin'  Him  to  His  face." 

"  That  so  ?  "  said  Johnny,  a  trifle  startled,  but 
with  an  impartial  air. 

"  There  ain't  no  circumstances  can  excuse  a  lie," 
said  Miss  Mahala. 
.     "You  don't  say  so,"  said  Johnny. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  're  a  bad  boy,  St.  John  Perry !  " 
she  repeated. 

"  Mebbe,"  said  St.  John. 

"  I  did  n't  tell  yer  father  when  I  found  ye  in  my 
yarb-garden  —  " 

"  Them  greens  !  " 

"Them  greens  is  property,  an'  you  was  takin' 
'em.  But  now  —  you  're  his  flesh  an'  blood  —  he 
may  know  how  to  deal  'ith  you.  I  don't." 

"  'T  won't  matter.  Daddy  never  licks  us." 

"He'dorter." 

"Efhedid,  I'd  run  away!" 

"  Sho ! " 

"I'd  jest  as  lieves.  Miss  Mahaly,"  said  Johnny, 
twirling  his  empty  hat,  "  you  did  n't  tell  on  me  to  ma." 


318  The  Elder' s  People 

"I  won't,"  said  Miss  Mahala.  "I  won't  give 
her  such  a  sorrer  —  the  sweet  soul !  "  She  took  her 
big  Bible  from  the  shelf;  her  own  little  Bible  for 
daily  use  was  in  her  bedroom.  She  turned  the  leaves 
over  for  a  text  she  wanted.  Every  here  and  there 
was  a  dollar  bill  laid  between  the  leaves.  Johnny's 
eyes  sparkled  as  he  caught  sight  of  them.  Suddenly 
she  shut  the  book.  She  did  not  know  exactly  the 
text  to  fit  the  crime.  The  boy  would  not  care  for 
the  thunders  and  lightnings  of  Sinai,  the  noise  of 
the  trumpet,  or  the  smoke  of  the  mountain.  "  You 
can  take  the  apples,  St.  John,"  she  said. 

But  St.  John  left  the  apples  and  went  his  way  up 
the  hill  to  young  Jerry.  Miss  Mahala  gazed  after 
him  with  misery  as  he  disappeared.  The  sweet 
shadows  of  the  green  wood,  the  dancing  flickers  of 
sunshine,  and  the  soaring  blue  above,  all  seemed  a 
mockery  when  she  thought  of  the  child  of  her  friend 
with  a  heart-breaking  taint  in  his  blood.  There 
was  no  sun  on  the  tossing  boughs  for  her,  no  balm 
in  the  breeze.  In  a  dreary  mood,  waiting  for  no 
luncheon,  she  tied  on  her  bonnet  and  sought  the 
Elder.  She  met  him  at  the  halfway  rock ;  his  wife 
had  sent  him  with  some  junket  for  an  ailing  person, 
junket  being  an  inexpensive  delicacy  when  you  owned 
your  cow  —  and  the  Elder  loved  it  for  the  sake  of 
John  Milton.  There  had  been  a  little  dispute  in  the 
Elder's  mind  as  to  the  naming  of  his  first  son,  but 
finally  St.  John  had  got  the  better  of  John  Milton. 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  319 

The  Elder  was  resting  now  on  the  moss-grown 
boulder,  looking  up  as  if  his  gaze  could  penetrate 
distances  of  sky.  She  hesitated ;  but  there  was  no  use 
beating  about  the  bush.  Reverie  or  prayer,  she  must 
disturb  it,  her  gloom  darkening  the  bright  summer  day. 

"Elder,"  she  said  abruptly,  "I  think  you  gotter 
deal  'ith  your  St.  John." 

"  Deal  with  —  eh  —  who  —  what  —  with  my 
St.  John  ?  "  said  the  Elder,  lowering  his  gaze  to 
Miss  Mahala's  shawl  —  Miss  Mahala  would  have 
held  it  an  immodesty  to  go  out  without  her  shawl, 
even  in  the  tropics. 

"With  your  Johnny,"    she  said  firmly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Johnny?"  he  asked 
gayly.  "  Why,  he  's  good  as  gold." 

"  Gold  had  orter  be  tried." 

"W^hy,  Miss  Mahala,  what  are  you  talking 
about  ? " 

"  I  hate  ter  tell  ye,  Elder.  I  hate  it  like  p'ison. 
But  you  gotter  look  out  fer  Johnny.  I  feel  es  bad 
es  ef  he  was  my  own,"  she  stammered.  "But  fust 
you  promise  not  to  say  a  word  to  Mis'  Perry  —  I 
can't  hev  her  feelin's  teched." 

"  Promise  ?  All  right.  No  matter  about  my  feel- 
ings, I  see." 

"  'T  aint  no  laughin'  matter,  Elder.  Johnny  — 
he  —  he's  —  I've  found  him  twicet  takin'  thin's 
't  wam't  his'n."  Miss  Mahala's  voice  was  trembling, 
and  everything  was  going  black  before  her  eyes. 


320  The  Elder's  People 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not,  Miss  Mahala,"  the  Elder  said. 

"  There  ain't  any  guess  to  it,  sir.  Fac's  is  fac's. 
Johnny  is  light-fingered."  And  then  Miss  Mahala 
sank  on  the  grass  and  closed  her  eyes.  It  had  been 
no  easy  matter  for  her  to  tell  the  Elder  standing  at 
the  gates  of  heaven  that  his  son  was  a  thief. 

The  Elder  tore  off  a  big  sassafras  leaf  and  hurried 
with  water  from  the  spring.  He  understood  the  ordeal 
it  had  been  to  her,  although,  of  course,  it  was  quite 
nonsensical.  "  There,"  he  said,  when  the  color  had 
returned  to  her  face,  "  now  I  '11  see  you  home.  And 
don't  give  Master  St.  John  another  thought.  I  '11 
attend  to  him.  I  've  stolen  green  apples  myself  in  my 


time." 


"  You  have.  Elder  ?  That 's  a  comfort.  P'r'aps 
Johnny  '11  come  out  all  right,  then.  But  you  must 
keep  your  weather-eye  open  for  him.  Elder.  Home 
'ith  me  ?  Ef  Mahaly  Brooks  can't  walk  home  alone 
she  'd  better  die  here !  You  go  along.  You  've  got 
work  afore  ye." 

But  that  evening,  as  the  Elder  sat  among  his 
children  and  saw  St.  John,  with  little  Peace  in  his 
arms  and  the  other  children  about  him  like  flies  about 
a  fallen  plum  while  he  told  them  a  Bible  story  with 
many  embellishments,  the  Elder  listened  a  moment. 

"That  is  hardly  true,  my  son,"  he  said. 

"  But  don't  you  wish  it  was,  pa  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"Wish  anything  in  the  Bible  different?"  ex- 
claimed his  father. 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  321 

"  Why  not  ?  Yes.  I  'd  like  to  play  Sundays.  I  'd 
like  to  take  anything  I  wanted,  no  matter  whose  it 
was  before." 

"My  son !  St.  John  !  Would  you  steal  ?  " 

"  'T  would  n't  be  stealin'  if  't  wam't  fer  the  Com- 
mandments," said  the  perspicacious  Johnny. 

And  the  Elder,  more  concerned  with  a  fear  of 
infidelity  in  Johnny  than  of  anything  else,  forgot 
about  the  danger  of  dishonesty  in  his  prayer  and  his 
endeavor  to  make  the  Lord  seem  a  living  person  to 
his  little  hearers.  There  was  a  matter  of  disciplining 
a  member  for  loose  thinking  and  light  talking  that 
troubled  the  Elder  just  then,  and  he  forgot  about 
Johnny,  so  to  say.  Only  his  heart  always  gave 
a  tender  throb  when  he  saw  Johnny  go  whistling 
down  the  road,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  often 
crownless  hat  on  the  back  of  his  bright  curls,  the 
picture  of  blue-eyed  innocence;  the  joy  of  Luke  and 
Steve  and  the  twins,  who  tagged  after  him  through 
heat  and  dust,  the  almoner  to  little  Peace  of  black 
raspberries  and  sweet-flag  root,  the  comfort  of  Una 
with  bits  of  spruce  gum,  translucent  and  sweet  as 
drops  of  honey.  Miss  Mahala  herself  had  once  said 
that  if  ever  there  was  a  lovable  rascal  it  was  Johnny 
Perry. 

But  seasons  fled  in  sun  and  shade,  and  Johnny 
was  a  big  boy  past  fourteen.  His  voice  was  not 
changed ;  he  could  still  sing  "  The  spacious  firma- 
ment on  high  "  like  a  flute,  like  a  young  angel.  But 


322  The  Elder's  People 

he  was  much  pleased  with  a  faint  down  upon  his 
upper  lip;  it  gave  him  a  dream  of  the  time  when  he 
should  go  out  West  and  take  up  six  hundred  and  forty 
acres  of  land  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  He  was  quite 
too  big  to  be  whipped ;  Miss  Mahala,  keeping  an  eye 
upon  him,  felt  this  a  pity.  There  were  times  when 
Johnny  was  playing  some  rogue's  trick  that  her 
fingers  tingled;  as  when  he  drew  lurid  flames  with 
ocher  and  vermilion  on  the  side  of  the  shed  that 
made  little  Pearl  Asher  afraid  to  go  to  bed. 

But  it  was  quite  a  way  across  the  woods,  and 
Johnny  was  not  often  in  evidence  at  Miss  Mahala's. 
She  was  surprised  one  morning,  when,  coming  home 
from  a  walk  with  Pharaoh  in  search  of  catnip,  she 
saw  her  door  open,  and  St.  John  Perry  standing 
there  with  her  Bible  in  his  hands. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  St.  John  ?  "  she  said 
severely. 

"  Your  Bible  's  full  o'  money,"  he  replied,  if  not 
with  much  relevancy. 

"What  of  that?" 

"  I  heered  daddy  tellin'  ma,  when  he  thought  I 
was  out  o'  the  way,  that  you  wanted  to  give  it  to 
him  in  your  will,  an'  he  would  n't  let  you.  An'  a 
dollar  bill  between  every  leaf!  An'  I  thought  I  'd  jes' 
look  out  fer  ma." 

"  I  ain't  dead  yet,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

"  What  difference  'd  that  make  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"  Consid'rable  —  to   me,"    said    Miss  Mahala, 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  323 

taking  the  book.  "I  was  hopin',  Johnny,  that 
you  'd  outgrowed  yer  badness.  That  you  *d  left  off 
stealin*." 

"I  wam't  stealin',"  said  Johnny.  "I  was  jes' 
a-takin*  what  you  give  pa  an'  he  would  n't  take  — 
takin'  it  fer  ma.'' 

"St.  John  Perry,  I  reely  think  you  must  be 
wantin' ! " 

"  I  be.  I  'm  wantin'  money  fer  ma." 

"  Then  go  to  work  and  earn  it !  Johnny,  don't 
you  know  it 's  wicked  to  steal  ? " 

"Yes'm." 

"Why?" 

"'Cause 'tis." 

"Wal,  p'r'aps  that's  so,"  said  Miss  Mahala, 
with  an  unformulated  thought  of  the  immutability 
of  right  and  wrong.  "  Johnny,  who  made  you  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  My  sponsors  in  baptism,"  Johnny  answered. 

"  Oh,  what  a  wicked  boy  you  be !  " 

"  You  've  said  so  afore." 

"  Ef  you  'd  ever  hed  a  change  o'  heart  them 
sponsors  might  'a'  be'n  the  makin'  on  ye,  in  one 
sense.  As  it  is,  wal,  I  take  a  good  deal  o'  blame  to 
myself  fer  not  follerin'  ye  up  closer." 

"I  should  think  you'd  done  yer  duty,"  said 
Johnny  nonchalantly. 

She  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  motioned  him 
to  a  seat  beside  her.  She  was  biting  a  sprig  of  penny- 


324  The  Elder's  People 

royal ;  she  offered  one  to  him ;  he  accepted  it  indif- 
ferently. Pharaoh  came  and  purred  round  them; 
Johnny  bent  and  smoothed  the  cat's  head.  Perhaps 
it  seemed  a  profane  touch  to  Miss  Mahala ;  she  took 
the  cat  and  shut  him  in  an  inner  room.  Then  she 
came  back  and  resumed  her  seat. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pretty  day  it  is !  "  she  sighed  pres- 
ently. 

As  that  was  self-evident,  it  perhaps  required  no 
answer.  It  received  none. 

"  There  's  nothin'  like  the  sky,"  said  Miss  Ma- 
hala, after  another  moment.  "  Nothin'  so  handsome. 
Cheerful,  tew.  What  ef  God  had  set  out  to  make  it 
green ;  would  n't  that  'a'  be'n  a  dreary  world !  And 
ef  He  'd  made  the  sky  red  —  I  do'  know  what  M  'a' 
happened.  But  blue —  it 's  jes'  the  color  o'  heaven." 

"  I  do'  know  nothin'  about  heaven,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Puffeckly  true.  You  don't.  I  useter  hear  it  said, 
*A  minister's  son  and  a  deacon's  daughter  gener'ly 
do  es  they  hed  n't  orter.'  " 

Johnny  apparently  did  n't  think  it  was  up  to  him 
to  prove  the  fallacy  of  the  distich.  Miss  Mahala 
went  on  biting  her  pennyroyal  leaf.  "  I  often  think," 
she  said,  after  a  short  interval,  "  how  many  idees 
the  Lord  must  'a'  hed  in  His  mind  when  He  thought 
out  an'  made  all  the  flowers." 

This  did  not  seem  to  affect  Johnny. 

"  You  're  fond  o'  flowers,  ain't  ye,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Some,"  said  Johnny. 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  325 

**  I  heered  say  you  'd  like  ter  be  a  gardinger  w'en 
ye  growed  up." 

Johnny  showed  a  spark  of  interest.  "Would  n't 
I!"  said  he. 

"  You  can't  be  a  gardinger,  o'  course,  or  hev  any 
flowers,  eyther,  ef  you  was  in  state's  prison." 

"  Look  here,  Miss  Mahaly,  you  can't  frighten  mc 
with  your  state's  prisons!  " 

"  Why  would  I  want  to  frighten  you  ?  Ef  the 
love  o'  the  Lord  that  giv'  ye  this  beautifle  world  ter 
live  in,  that  giv'  ye  your  father  an'  mother  an'  little 
Peace,  won't  keep  ye  straight,  state's  prison  won't 
eyther.  But  ef  I  don't  tell  on  ye  now,  I  'm  com- 
poundin'  of  a  felony  an'  liable  to  state's  prison  my- 
self, an'  I  'm  pesky  fond  o'  flowers,  an'  'd  miss  my 
yarb-garding  dredfly." 

"  Tha'  so  !  "  said  Johnny. 

"  Talkin'  o'  flowers,  there  's  a  little  one  in  a  tum- 
bler in  there  that  I  picked  off"  'n  Sonny's  grave,  ye 
know  —  the  little  boy  that  died.  I  was  goin'  ter  take 
it  up  ter  yer  mother,  she  bein'  too  lame  to  come 
down  jes'  yit,  but  you  may  as  well,  w'en  you  go." 

Johnny  turned  his  head,  and  the  color  mounted 
his  face. 

"  I  don't  persume  you  mind  how  yer  father  took 
on  when  that  dear  child  died?  " 

Johnny  remembered ;  at  least  he  nodded. 

"  I  s'pose  he  'd  ruther  the  child  died  than  lived 
ter  go  to  state's  prison.  I  s'pose  he  'd  ruther  you 


326  The  Elder's  People 

died  yerself,  much  as  he  sets  by  ye,  than  know  you 
was  in  state's  prison  wearin*  stripes,"  she  said  re- 
flectively. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  no  state's  prison !  "  he  cried 
suddenly. 

"  You  ?  How  do  you  know  ?  One  step  leads  to 
another  in  wrong-doin'.  You  never  know  where 
you  '11  land.  I  don't  know  where  I  '11  fetch  up  my- 
self. It 's  dredfle  dismal  an'  gloomy  shet  up  in 
prison,  an'  hard  work,  reel  hard  work,  an'  bread  an' 
water  to  eat,  an'  wearin'  stripes  roundabout  instead 
of  up  an'  down  —  it — it's  awfle!"  And  Miss 
Mahala  shuddered,  perhaps  at  the  picture  of  the 
stripes.  "  St.  John  Perry  won't  sound  well  on  the 
prison-roll;  St.  John  won't." 

"  I  ain't  afraid,"  said  St.  John  Perry. 

"  You  'd  better  be,  unless  you  turn  a  short  corner. 
How  do  you  s'pose  you  come  by  the  name  ? " 

*'The  beloved  disciple,"  said  Johnny  shortly. 
An'  your  father  wanted  you  to  be  beloved  so, 
too.  But  of  course —  Wal,  Mahaly  ain't  much  of 
a  name  —  kind  of  a  breath  —  but  ef  I  was  named 
St.  John  I'd  try  an'  live  up  to  it.  'T would  'a' 
be'n  fust-rate  ef  by  an'  by  the  Lord  couldn't  'a' 
told  which  St.  John  He  loved  the  most.  You  mind 
the  night  little  Peace  was  bom,  an'  your  mother 
sent  fer  you  an'  told  you  she  was  yourn  an'  you  'd 
gotter  look  out  fer  her  all  her  life  ?  A  person  that 's 
do  in'  time  behind  four  walls  can't  look  out  fer  any 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  327 

one.  How  bad  Peace  would  feel,  the  dear,  pretty 
creetur,  all  disgraced  by  her  brother,  an'  she  lovin' 
ye  an'  b'lievin'  in  ye  so.  Yes,  yer  mother  give  her 
to  ye ;  you  was  allers  yer  mother's  favoright.  When 
the  little  boy  died  she  turned  to  you.  '  I  've  got 
Johnny,'  she  said.  'Ef  Johnny  is  spared  to  me,  I 
won't  repine,'  she  said.  You  was  her  first-bom. 
She's  a  reel  tender  heart.  I  s'pose  she'd  jes'  break 
down  an'  fade  away  —  " 

And  then  Johnny  fell  to  cr^'ing  and  hiding  his 
face  in  his  sleeve.  "INIiss  Mahaly,"  he  blubbered, 
"I  won't  ever  take  anythin'  ag'in  that  don't  belong 
to  me.  I  won't  ever  tell  a  lie.  I'll  be  good  —  oh, 
I  '11  be  good ! "  And  Miss  Mahala  took  him  in  her 
arms  and  cried  too. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  A  thrush  thought  it  too 
long  and  broke  it  with  a  bubble  of  pure  music. 

"Miss  Mahaly,"  said  Johnny,  "I  feel  as  if  I'd 
j'ined  the  church." 

"You  hev,  St.  John,"  she  said.  "  The  reel  church. 
But  you  don't  know  it  yet." 

There  were  some  other  things  they  spoke  of  as 
they  sat  there  in  the  long  summer  morning.  It  came 
out  that  Johnny  felt  it  to  be  a  miracle  when  the 
first  blades  of  the  harvest  put  their  green  tips  above 
ground;  that  he  would  like  to  work  such  miracles 
himself;  that  farming  appealed  to  him.  And  it  was 
a  fortunate  coincidence  that  Miss  Mahala  had  an 
outlying  farm  that  had  run  to  waste,  and  Miss  Ma- 


328  The  Elder's  People 

hala  wanted  some  one  to  take  an  interest  in  it,  and 
Johnny  was  bubbling  with  interest.  They  spoke  of 
other  things,  among  them  of  the  robbery  of  David's 
money-drawer  at  the  Comers. 

"It  wam't  me,"  said  Johnny.  "You  b'lieve  me? 
'Twam't  me.'' 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Miss  Mahala. 

By  and  by  he  went,  carrying,  besides  the  little 
flower,  an  accumulation  of  dimes  that  Miss  Mahala 
had  been  keeping  in  the  sugar-bowl,  and  which  she 
insisted  on  pouring  into  his  pockets  in  spite  of  his 
manful  protest.  He  came  back,  after  starting  to  go, 
and  kissed  Miss  Mahala's  brown  and  withered 
cheek. 

It  was  a  week  or  so  afterward  that  the  Elder 
came  slowly  through  the  wood,  walking  as  if  he 
carried  a  load  on  his  shoulders,  and  unlatched  Miss 
Mahala's  gate.  She  ran  to  meet  him. 

"  It 's  too  pleasant  for  indoors,"  she  said.  "We'll 
visit  here"  —  and  they  sat  down  on  the  doorstep 
together. 

"  One  place  is  as  pleasant  as  another,"  the  Elder 
sighed. 

"You're  lookin'  tired,  Elder,"  she  said.  "Kind 
o'  peaked.  You  jes'  wait  till  I  git  you  some  o'  my 
wild  cherry  —  " 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  it,  thank  you.  I  —  " 

"  But  you  must  have  suthin',  Elder.  An  egg  beat 
up  'ith  a  sip  o'  old  cider." 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  329 

"No,  Miss  Mahala,  no."  And  then  there  was 
silence.  Miss  Mahala  waited;  and  at  last  the  Elder 
roused  himself. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  you  in  some  trouble  of  mind," 
he  said.  "I  may  say  in  great  distress.  I  have  been 
preparing  a  discourse  on  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for,  and  have  been  so  occupied  —  for  it  is  a 
most  pleasant  subject  of  consideration  —  that  I  have 
perhaps  neglected  my  duty  and  have  suffered  the 
children  to  go  too  much  unwatched  during  Mrs. 
Perrj^'s  lameness.  Not  long  since  I  found  them  in 
possession  of  various  pieces  of  silver.  Pieces  of  silver 
have  wrought  great  mischief  in  this  world.  On  in- 
quiry I  found  that  my  St.  John  had  giv^en  them.  I 
was  startled.  We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  having 
money."  The  Elder  was  looking  straight  before 
him,  speaking  in  a  low  and  husky  voice.  "  A  con- 
versation I  once  had  with  you  suddenly  recurred  to 
me  —  oh,  like  a  stab —  and  as  it  happened,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  met  Deacon  Asher,  who  mentioned  to 
me  the  robbery  of  David's  till  at  the  Corners.  A 
great  loss  to  poor  David.  Miss  Mahala,"  turning 
on  her  sharply,  "  where  do  you  suppose  St.  John  got 
those  pieces  of  silver  ?  " 

*'I  give  'em  to  him,"  said  Miss  Mahala.  "Any- 
thin'  else  troublin'  ye  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Mahala,  that,  indeed,  is  a  relief;  yet 
when  you  told  me  one  day,  as  I  was  resting  on  the 
halfway  stone,  that  my  Johnny  was  —  I  —  can^t  say 


330  The  Elder's  People 

the  word  —  '*  He  stopped  as  if  expecting  her  to 
supply  it. 

'*  Ef  you  can't  say  it  I  can't  think  it,  Elder,"  she 
said. 

"  It  came  back  to  me  this  morning,"  he  resumed; 
"  all  you  said,  as  I  waked.  It  came  like  a  thunder- 
stroke. I  —  I  felt  crushed  to  earth.  If  my  boy  is 
—  is  a  thief — "  The  Elder  choked  at  the  word. 
"  Why,  it  is  impossible!  His  mother's  son  can't  go 
wrong !  His  mother  has  the  whitest  soul  this  side  of 
heaven." 

"That's  true.  Elder." 

"But  if — if  he  is,  I  had  better  not  have  lived. 
My  work  is  a  failure.  But  that  is  no  matter,  in 
comparison.  My  son,  my  poor  young  son  —  I  would 
rather  it  had  been  I  myself  than  that  child.  When 
you  told  me  Johnny  was  —  was  light-fingered  —  " 
The  Elder  whispered  the  word. 
I     "I!  I  told  you  that !  " 

"  Certainly.  You  told  me,  you  remember,  that 
you  found  him  stealing  your  herbs  and  your  apples, 
but  at  the  time  I  was  so  greatly  caught  up  in  the 
spirit  over  the  way  out  of  a  great  trouble  in  the 
parish  that  it  seemed  to  me  then  too  small  to  notice, 
if  you  will  excuse  me,  Miss  Mahala.  I  thought  I 
knew  my  St.  John,  and  the  impossibility  of  his  going 
very  wrong ;  and  when  you  said  I  must  look  out  for 
him,  for  he  was  light-fingered,  I  half  thought  —  you 
know  you  fainted  —  that  instead  of  his  being  light-^ 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  331 

fingered  you  were  a  little  light-headed,  and  I  went 
my  way  and  forgot  about  it ;  God  forgive  me —  '* 

"  Es  ef  there  ever  was  a  boy  of  any  sperrit  that 
did  n't  steal  green  apples  when  he  lived  where  they 
growed,  sence  the  days  of  Adam  and  Eve !  "  ex- 
claimed Miss  Mahala.  "  But  as  for  your  Johnny,  ef 
it 's  him  you  mean,  why,  he 's  as  honest  es  you  be, 
and  is  goin'  ter  live  an  upright  life."  She  was  trem- 
bling like  a  leaf. 

*'  Then  what  did  you  mean  —  " 

"  Elder,  I  don't  know  what  you  're  a-talkin' 
of!" 

"  I  am  speaking  of  what  you  said  to  me  out  there 
that  day  by  the  halfway  stone,  and  as  I  remembered 
it  this  morning,  having  seen  the  dimes,  and  having 
heard  of  the  robbery  of  David's  till  —  " 

"Elder,  I  don't  know  what  ter  make  of  you. 
Ain't  you  be'n  dreamin'  ?  Air  —  air  you  disturbed 
in  your  mind? '' 

"Miss  Mahala,  I  'm  broken-hearted." 

"  It  does  beat  all !  You  must  'a'  be'n  dreamin'  a 
regular  nightmare." 

She  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face.  She  felt 
as  if  the  heavens  were  falling.  A  little  bird  whis- 
tling in  the  cedar  seemed  an  evil  spirit  addressing 
her. 

"Elder,"  said  Miss  Mahala,  solemnly,  "look 
a-here !  I  ain't  ever  see  you  at  the  halfway  stun,  nor 
hed  any  conversation  'ith  ye   about  St.  John,  nor 


332  The  Elder's  People 

ever  told  ye  anythin'  about  yarbs  or  apples,  or  ter 
look  out  fer  Johnny,  or  that  he  was  light-fingered. 
There !  An'  I  ain't  ever  fainted  away  in  my  life. 
I  sh'd  thought  you  would  'a'  said  I  was  light- 
headed ! " 

Miss  Mahala  was  white  under  all  her  tan ;  but 
the  Elder,  in  a  maze,  was  not  looking  at  her 
now. 

"You've  be'n  dreamin',"  she  continued.  "Some 
dreams  is  like  live  thin's.  Or  the  Evil  One  's  be'n 
a- whisper  in'  in  your  ear.  You  're  tew  busy,  you  're 
what  they  call  overworked  an'  het  up.  You  're  jes' 
needin'  me  ter  fix  up  some  o'  my  spring  bitters  fer 
ye-" 

"  Miss  Mahala !  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Cert'in  I  be." 

"  I  can't  credit  it.  I  can't  admit  it.  It  is  perfectly 
real  in  my  recollection — ' 

"That's  the  way  with  them  strong  kind  o' 
dreams." 

"  But  I  'm  not  a  dreaming  man." 

"  An'  so  all  the  more  when  ye  do  dream  it  seems 
reel.  I  dessay  you  '11  say  I  hed  on  a  green  shawl  —  " 

"You  did." 

"  Wal,  I  ain't  got  any  green  shawl !  Dreams  is 
queer  thin's." 

"Miss  Mahala,  if  this  is  all  true,  it  would  be  a 
mountain  off  my  mind  and  soul." 

"  True !  I  don't  s'pose  you  're  a-doubtin'  of  my 


Miss  Mahala  and  Johnny  333 

word?  Anybody  in  this  perrish  '11  tell  ye  Mahaly 
Brooks  never  telled  a  lie  —  afore  !  " 

Miss  Mahala's  voice  was  raised  a  little,  for  as 
she  spoke  she  was  wondering  how  much  logwood  it 
would  take  to  dye  a  green  garment  black,  the  height- 
ened tone  an  unconscious  veil  to  her  thought.  But 
it  was  convincing. 

The  Elder  stood  up  and  reached  his  arms  to  heaven. 
"  I  thank  God !  I  thank  God !  "  he  said.  And  then 
he  turned  to  Miss  Mahala  with  some  of  the  blue  fire 
of  that  heaven  in  his  eye  and  an  ineffable  sweetness 
in  his  smile.  If  she  quailed  the  least  in  the  world,  he 
did  not  perceive  it.  "You  have  made  me  another 
man,"  he  said,  taking  his  seat  again  on  the  doorstep. 
"  And  now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  an  ^'^^  whipped 
up  in  old  cider  would  be  very  refreshing  to  that  other 


man." 


"  I  '11  hev  one,  tew,"  she  said,  as  she  went  in.  "  I 
don't  need  the  cider,"  she  added  to  herself.  "  I  s'pose 
it 's  wrong.  But  I  'm  on  the  downward  course,  any- 
way." 

"  Why,  Elder,"  she  said,  when  she  returned  with 
the  concoction,  "ain't  Johnny  telled  ye?  Wal,  he 
ain't  hardly  hed  time.  He 's  goin'  to  the  Aggercul- 
teral  College  in  a  year  or  so.  I  'm  sendin'  him  — 
you  an'  Mis'  Perry  agreein'.  I've  got  the  means. 
An'  then  he 's  ter  hev  this  ol'  farm  o'  mine  thet  's 
run  to  waste  this  twenty  year." 

The  Elder  walked  home  on  air. 


334  The  Elder's  People 

Miss  Mahala  went  into  her  room  and  shut  the 
door.  She  knelt  down  beside  her  bed.  But  she  could 
pray  no  prayer.  She  was  bitter  at  heart,  but  she  was 
not  sorry.  The  Lord  must  forgive  her.  Some  day  He 
would  ! 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .  A 


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